


Latitude

by Salchat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Action/Adventure, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-19 03:02:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 58,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22770871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salchat/pseuds/Salchat
Summary: Kidnapped by Travelers, John and Rodney escape, but find themselves stranded on an alien planet, thousands of miles from the Stargate.  Follow them on their adventures across land and sea, as they discover the secrets of this strange world, travelling through freezing wasteland, the searing heat of the desert and the dangers of dense rainforest!
Comments: 15
Kudos: 37





	1. Escape

"Will it work?"

No answer, other than a glance of wide, panic-filled blue eyes and a frantic scatter of fingers over control keys. The shuddering increased, the roar now deafening.

John shouted, desperate, "McKay, will it work?"

"Some of it will, yes! But, this thing's cobbled together out of, I don't know, ten different systems? It's a mess!" Rodney clung to one of the instrument panels as the tiny escape pod juddered and vibrated its way into the planet's atmosphere. " _If_ the thermal shielding holds, _if_ the descent angle is correct, _if_ the parachutes deploy, a whole load of _ifs!_ "

"Will it get us near the gate?"

"I'd be happy just to be alive after this, but, yes, it's supposed to detect the Gate and land nearby."

They were both suddenly thrown up in the air and slammed back down into their seats.

"I th-think the inertial d-dampeners might be c-compromised!" said Rodney, juddering along with the tiny ship.

They both strapped themselves into their seats, pulling the belts as tight as they'd go. Rodney tapped the screen within his reach and an outline image of the planet appeared. It showed a red dot situated in the centre of a large continent that spanned the equator. There was another continent further north, covering the pole, and extending south into what would on Earth be the temperate zone. There were also various islands and archipelagos scattered across the globe.

"Th-that's the Gate!" said Rodney, pointing to the dot. There was a yellow line showing the escape pod's trajectory; it seemed to be on course to land near the Stargate. John and Rodney watched their progress on the screen as the yellow line crept around the globe.

"Looking good!" said Rodney, but as soon as the words were out of his mouth a strident alarm began to blare and red lights started flashing on various panels.

"What's happening, McKay?" said John, bracing himself against the structure of the pod as the shuddering continued.

"Bad things!" said Rodney, slapping his hands over the instrument panels. "I'll try to compensate!"

John watched as the yellow line of their course slowly veered north, away from the Gate.

"We're off course!"

"I know that! I'm trying to stabilise! We're coming in too fast!"

The yellow line was heading directly for the north pole when there was a massive jerk and the shuddering reduced.

"McKay?"

"Parachute!"

Another jerk and they were thrown forward in their seats.

"That's the second 'chute deploying," said Rodney. "There should be five." Another jerk. "The first four tear away but the last should stay attached, if we're not going too fast!"

They were flung forward in their seats once more and they looked at each other. If the next parachute tore away they'd crash-land with very little hope of survival.

The pod jerked once more, the vibration disappeared to almost nothing and to John and Rodney it felt like the little ship was stationary. There were no windows and there was no sensation of movement. On the display, the yellow line ended roughly where one would have expected to find Hudson Bay on Earth, or the far north of Scotland.

"Have we landed?" asked John, doubtfully. His voice sounded loud in the near silence.

"No, we're drifting," said Rodney. He slumped back in his seat, his eyes flicking to the map of their location. "We should land safely, but..." He shook his head and flapped a hand at the screen.

"A long way from the Gate," finished John.

"Oh, yes!" said Rodney, wearily. "And this planet isn't even the same size as Earth. It's about one and a half times as big!"

"So a _really_ long way from the Gate," said John. He sighed. "Where does it say what our altitude is?"

"Here," Rodney pointed. "These units convert to... just under three thousand feet."

"So, a few minutes before we touch down? Do we need to release the parachute? Are we going to get dragged along?"

"I don't know!" said Rodney, exasperated. "It'd be a bit of a design flaw, wouldn't it? But who knows with this lot? It's like it's been put together by chimps!"

"Travelers, McKay," said John.

"It amounts to the same thing, as far as I'm concerned!" said Rodney bitterly.

oOo

The Travelers had stationed a spy satellite in orbit around the planet, M7G-677, having discovered that Atlantis personnel periodically visited the inhabitants. This particular group, no friends to Larrin, had decided that Atlantis Gate teams were a resource they could tap; that is, kidnap and either benefit from their expertise, or sell to the highest bidder, or both.

John and Rodney, heading for the orbital Gate having carried out some routine maintenance on the shield (in Rodney's case) and taught the kids to play football (in John's case), were confronted by an unknown ship dropping out of hyperspace. John had guessed they were Travelers when the jumper was disabled and taken aboard their ship, just as it had been when he had encountered Larrin and her crew.

The Travelers had thought they'd hit the jackpot when they realised they'd captured Colonel Sheppard; Rodney they dismissed as merely 'a scientist'. They began arguing among themselves about the best way to profit from their captives, not realising they'd made a big mistake in thinking they could keep Rodney contained within their ship of cannibalised parts.

Rodney's eyes were huge as he and John were forcibly walked through the ship and he could barely suppress a grin. As soon as the door of their cell closed behind them he turned to John.

"Well, isn't this just a delicious buffet of mismatched technology?" he said with a smirk. Then John was surprised to see him crouch down and start unlacing his boot.

"You gonna McGyver it with your bootlaces and some gum?" he asked.

"Oh, ha ha," replied Rodney. "Ronon's not the only one with concealed weapons, you know. Or in my case," he took off his boot, flipped up the insole and drew something out of the hollow heel space, "concealed tools!"

John raised his eyebrows. "You're full of surprises, McKay!"

Rodney had levered up a wall panel and had the door sliding smoothly open within about two minutes. Five minutes of careful exploration of the surrounding corridors, John watching Rodney's six, had netted him a panel behind which lurked access to the ship's central systems. With gleaming eyes, tapping fingers, a snip here and a reconnection there, Rodney worked out a way to divert the ship to the nearest planet with a Gate, give them a chance to escape, and deter pursuers. He finished and resecured the access panel, then checked his watch.

"We've got ten minutes!" he said to John.

"For what?"

"Get to the jumper and get off this ship!"

"Let's get going, then!" John led the way, checking carefully at each junction, moving as swiftly and stealthily as he could.

"What happens after ten minutes?" he whispered to Rodney as they went along.

"The ship drops out of hyperspace," said Rodney, "Above a planet with a Gate, hopefully!"

"Hopefully?" said John, with a frown.

"Okay, definitely," said Rodney. "Then when we're on course for the Gate, the virus I planted will ensure that the ship re-enters hyperspace and embarks on a series of random and confusing jumps, leaving us free to go home!"

"Nice work, Rodney!" said John approvingly.

At that point things had started to go wrong. Their escape was discovered and the corridors swarmed with crew intent on recapturing them. They couldn't get to the jumper and ended up cornered when the ship dropped out of hyperspace. Then John had noticed an escape pod and they had opted to scramble into it and launch rather than be recaptured.

oOo

The pod continued to descend silently, John and Rodney waiting tensely for the impact. It came with a teeth-rattling bump and then they felt themselves sliding sideways and down, grinding and jolting over a bumpy surface, the hull ringing with a series of metallic clashes as it hit unknown obstacles.

It finally slowed to a halt, the lights suddenly cut out and there was only darkness, the ticking of cooling metal and the sound of rapid breathing.


	2. A New World

The lights flickered back on, dimly, fluttering slightly like a damaged striplight. John and Rodney sat still, slowly relaxing as they realized they really had survived their descent. John began to speak, cleared his throat and tried again.

"Good job, Rodney."

Rodney gave a quick nod of his head in acknowledgement, not trusting his voice. He wondered when his white-knuckled hands would release their grip on the padding of his seat.

John was already unbuckling his belt. "C'mon, McKay!" he said, with his characteristic chirpy grin, "Let's see what's out there!"

 _How does he recover so quickly from stuff like this?_ thought Rodney. He looked down at his hands, took a deep breath and let go. His hands shook as he undid his seatbelt but they quickly steadied as it occurred to him to check their location on the display. He tapped the screen. No response. He tried various other controls, tapped each screen in turn but the consoles remained determinedly lifeless.

"Looks like we've got lights and very little else," he said.

John looked down from his position standing on his chair. "Let's hope this releases manually, then!" He reached up to the circular hatch and gripped the hand wheel firmly. Bracing one foot on the seat and one on the wall of the tiny ship, he heaved as hard as he could on the wheel, but felt no movement at all.

"Need some more muscle here!" he said.

Rodney climbed up next to John and took hold of the hand wheel. They both put all their strength into turning it. "Maybe it turns the other way!" said John through gritted teeth. There was a very slight shift and they renewed their efforts, only for the wheel to suddenly spin freely, whereupon they both lost their balance, let go and landed awkwardly, sprawled across the two seats.

"I think that did it!" said John, getting to his feet.

He pushed the hatch open and it flipped over and clanged down against the outer surface of the hull. John reached up and pulled himself through, then his hand appeared again, reaching down and Rodney, with John's help, hauled himself through the opening.

The cold brightness of the light made them screw up their eyes as they slid down the side of the pod and onto the ground. It was good to breathe fresh air but they both began shivering in the chill bite of the wind.

The landscape, under a slate-grey sky was harsh, unforgiving. Mountains swept up in glaciated curves to rocky, snow-clad peaks, their slopes clad in brown tussocky grass and wiry heather, with patches of sharp scree here and there. Where they had landed there were small, stunted thorny trees, which lined the banks of a shallow river, icy, frothing water rushing over the rocks, threading away into the far distance to where Rodney could see a long, narrow lake, cold white light reflecting off its surface.

Rodney took a few steps away from the pod, stumbling over tufts of coarse grass. He looked up at the mountains looming either side of him, he thought about the image of this planet on the display screen, how far north they were, how very far away the Stargate. He felt his breathing begin to quicken in panic, his throat begin to tighten; the landscape was so vast and he was so small. The harsh wind cut through his clothes and he began to shiver harder, wrapping his arms around his trembling body, his panic mounting.

"McKay! Rodney!"

He felt a touch on his shoulder, and he spun round, nearly losing his balance until two hands were under his elbows, supporting him.

"Breathe, Rodney!"

He found he was looking into John's reassuring eyes and he worked to slow his breathing, gaining control over his panic. He wasn't alone; they were in this together.

"It's too close to sunset to do anything today," John said. "Come on, let's get back inside."

Rodney nodded.

John boosted Rodney back up to the hatch and he dropped awkwardly down inside, to be followed by John a moment later.

"You okay?" said John.

"Yes," replied Rodney. "It was just... we're really on our own with this one, aren't we?"

John shrugged. "You and me, though, McKay, this planet won't know what hit it! So," he continued, "let's see what we've got in here that we can use!"

There was no standing space at all in the pod, so John and Rodney had to stand, sit or kneel on the seats. They explored the wall panels to either side and discovered narrow storage cupboards built into the hull, where they found some basic survival kit. It proved to be the usual mismatch of scavenged items typical of the Travelers. There were a couple of blankets, a bit like the emergency blankets they normally carried, but a bit thicker. Other things were harder to identify. A small black rod proved to be a fire lighter, which John discovered by pressing a button on the side, whereupon a flame shot out of the end he was holding and burnt his hand. A blister pack of pink squares that were far too large to be pills was a mystery to John, but when Rodney saw it he recognised it immediately.

"That's Asgard!" he said, in surprise.

"Asgard what, though?" said John suspiciously.

"Food, of course," replied Rodney. "I don't know if we could eat it, though. Sam said she tried some once and it was disgusting!"

"We'll save it for when we get desperate," said John. "I mean _if_ we get desperate," he said, seeing Rodney's look of alarm. He regarded the blister pack thoughtfully. "So... have you ever wondered...?"

"We've all wondered that, Sheppard," said Rodney, "And when they do go, what's an Asgard bathroom actually like?"

"But they don't have any..." John waved his hand vaguely. "Surely someone on the Daedalus must know?"

Rodney shook his head. "Many have speculated, none have discovered, not even Dr Novak and she was practically Hermiod's girlfriend."

John sniggered, then frowned. "But how could he be a _he_ if..."

"Never mind that, what do you think these are?" Rodney said, holding up a squashy foil package.

"That looks a bit like an MRE," said John. "Let's put it in the food pile. Although, if it's Traveler stuff it might not be any more edible than the Asgard tablets." He drew out some more packets from the cupboard. "Look, medical supplies," he said. "Dressings, some kind of pills. We'll take all these."

"What do you think this is?" asked Rodney, holding up a silver sphere.

"Let's see," said John, holding out his hand. As soon as the sphere touched John's palm it cracked open slightly, a white glowing line appearing round its width. Four lines of light sprang out of the sphere, each at ninety degrees to the other. One of the lines was brighter than the other three.

Rodney gave a surprised, "Huh!" and John turned the little object around, watching as the lines altered their positions so that they always pointed in the same direction.

John grinned. "It's a compass!" he said. "An Ancient compass!"

John thought the compass 'off' and put it in his pocket. Rodney was holding up a tub of tiny pills and squinting at the label on the side.

"What are they?" asked John.

"I think they must be water purification tablets," replied Rodney. "What do you think?"

John took the tub and scrutinized the label. He didn't have a clue about the writing but the pictures did seem to show the pills being dropped in water and then somebody drinking it.

"Yeah, I think you're right," he agreed.

Eventually they had assembled several piles of useful kit: food, consisting of the Asgard tablets and various types of ration packs, medical supplies, including pills to be used with care, if at all, because they were unidentifiable, two canteens and the water purification tablets, two blankets, the compass and a small, folding knife. There was also an old, rather dirty messenger-type bag which would do to carry it all in.

"It's not much," said Rodney.

"We'll manage," said John, picking up the knife and examining it. _Our only weapon_ , he thought, regretting the loss of his P90 and Beretta. He put the knife down and picked up the two canteens. "I'm going to fill these, you sort out dinner," he said, gesturing toward the ration packs.

A bitter wind blew down into the pod when John opened the hatch and when he dropped back down through the opening there was snow in his hair and on his shoulders and flakes drifted down and began settling on the seats. John pulled the hatch closed after him, jamming a bit of stick in so that it wouldn't close completely with an air-tight seal.

He dropped the canteens and tucked his hands under his arms; his fingers were numb with cold. 

"We're going to freeze out there!" said Rodney, worriedly, picking up the canteens and dropping a tablet in each. It had been summer time where the kids lived on M7G-677; Rodney wore his jacket and t-shirt and John just had his uniform shirt on over his t-shirt. Neither had their tac vests any more, those having been confiscated by the Travelers.

John picked up one of the blankets and felt the slippery silver-green fabric. "Have to improvise," he said, folding it in half. He took the knife, cut a hole in the centre and put it over his head. "This season's stylish new look!" he announced. Rodney snorted. John used the knife to cut off one of the straps on his seat and tied it round his waist, saying, "And to complete the look... a fashionable belt!"

"You look ridiculous," said Rodney.

"And you're going to look just as ridiculous," said John, cutting a hole in the other blanket and throwing it over Rodney's head.

They discussed their route over tasteless Traveler ration packs.

"Do we follow the valley or go over the mountains?" asked Rodney, squashing his ration pack so that a trail of unappetising brown paste squeezed out of one corner.

John took out the compass and thought it on. "We need to head south," he said. "The gate is roughly south east, I think."

As he spoke a blue line sprung out of the device.

"Oh! Well, I guess this thing shows the direction of the gate." He paused and Rodney waited while John continued to stare at the compass.

"What?" Rodney said, impatiently.

"Nothing," said John, sounding disappointed. "Just thought I'd try thinking about population centres, Ancient outposts... the nearest turkey sandwich! Anyhow," he continued, "I don't want to follow the valley too far; it goes in the wrong direction. We'll look for a pass between the mountains." He rolled up his ration pack like a tube of toothpaste, trying to squeeze out as much as he could.

"Maybe we'll meet someone who can help. Someone with transport!" said Rodney, hopefully.

"Who knows?" said John, lying down on his seat. "It's probably like most other planets in Pegasus. A small population, not too far from the gate. We should get some sleep."

Rodney looked longingly at the rest of the rations. Then he lay down and closed his eyes, thinking about the journey ahead, who they might meet, where they might find some decent food. He fell asleep thinking about the stash of power bars and chocolate he had hidden in his lab.


	3. Survival

John stopped, his breath pluming out before him in the freezing air. He turned and looked back the way they had come, their footprints visible in the light dusting of snow which had fallen overnight. The sky was a clear blue and the sun sparkled on the frosted grass and patches of ice. The pod was just a speck in the distance, along the valley to the west and far below.

"You need a breather?" asked John.

"No, I'm just admiring the view!" snapped Rodney, who had also stopped, but was gasping for breath, head down, his hands on his knees.

John waited, giving Rodney a couple of minutes to regroup. He looked up the slope they were climbing, hoping it would level off soon. They'd set off about four hours ago and John had chosen this route as the most likely to get them over this range of mountains and down into the next valley before nightfall. They couldn't afford to be on high ground overnight; their clothes weren't really adequate for daytime hikes in this climate and at night they simply wouldn't survive.

John looked at Rodney, still gasping, hunched over against the cold, hands tucked under his arms.

"Here, have one of these," he said, bringing out a bar-shaped foil packet from the messenger bag. "It might be like a power bar!"

Rodney unwrapped the bar, bit the end off and chewed, grimacing.

"It's not," he said grumpily, but carried on eating anyway. "Aren't you having one?"

"Already have," John lied, knowing he could manage on far less than Rodney. "Come on, it's too cold to stay still."

They carried on, trudging up the side of the mountain, sometimes finding an animal trail which saved them energy, more often scrambling and slipping over the uneven ground and clumps of tough, dry grass. A couple of times they thought they were at the top, only to come over the crest and find another rise in front of them. At last, though, the ground began to level off. The mountains swept up to either side, their peaks wreathed in cloud.

They stopped to eat one of the ration packs each, standing because there was nowhere dry to sit.

"These don't improve with altitude, do they?" said Rodney, sucking on a corner of his pack and squeezing it with both hands. "The Asgard stuff is beginning to look attractive."

"Make the most of them," said John, crumpling up his pack and shoving it back in the bag. "They won't last forever." He looked at the sky; the sun was well past its zenith and clouds were forming in the blue. John hoped they weren't in for more snow.

"C'mon, Rodney, time to move," he said.

The descent was steep and they trod carefully, knowing that to skid and fall could mean injury or at the very least, wet clothes, both of which could be fatal.

The sun had gone behind the far line of hills by the time they were approaching the valley floor. It was steeper and narrower than the valley where they'd left the pod, but had the same scattered clumps of thorn trees, contorted by fierce winds, following the line of a mountain stream.

The river had cut deeply into the peaty soil, leaving sharply defined banks that dropped down about four feet to the icy waters, which tumbled and frothed over the bedrock. In places the river had changed its course and stones and soil had built up in the lee of the vertical banks. It was one such place that John spotted as a potential campsite. A little beach had formed, about a foot higher than the water level and the bank of black, rooty soil would give some shelter.

"We need as much firewood as we can get," said John decisively.

Rodney, in his now customary pose, hunched up with his hands crossed over and tucked under his arms, just nodded miserably and shuffled away toward the stunted trees.

They picked up what dead wood they could find and stacked it ready for the night. Looking at the pile of wood, John knew it wouldn't be enough; their lives depended on this fire. He thought it was ironic that they were surrounded by potential fuel in the form of peat, but it was useless to them; peat had to be dried out before it could be burnt. They began breaking off branches and snapping them into smaller lengths, scraping already chapped hands on the rough bark.

Tinder was a problem because they had nothing dry. John tried peeling some bark away from one of the narrow tree trunks, with limited success. He ended up with a handful of bark fragments which he put in a pocket.

Rodney, looked around, his mind cataloguing and processing the environment.

"Give me the knife!"

John passed it over and Rodney crouched down on the ground. He'd been tripping over the clumps of coarse grass all day and was more than happy to get his revenge. Ripping the stalks apart from each other he exposed the bleached straw-like centre. It felt dry and he cut out as much as he could and pocketed it.

They argued over the whole fire-lighting process, partly because they were both exhausted and freezing cold, partly just because there was comfort in normality.

"What are you doing, McKay, building a house?"

"This is how to do it to get maximum oxygen to the fuel!" replied Rodney primly.

"That's how to do it if you want to take all night! Here, let me." John began rearranging the sticks in a criss-cross pattern with the tinder in the centre.

"Well, I should light it, because I collected most of the tinder!" Rodney insisted.

"Knock yourself out," said John bad-temperedly throwing the lighter at him.

"Thank you!" Rodney held the lighter to the dry grass and pressed the button. Nothing happened. He tried again with the same result. And again.

"Isn't that the definition of insanity?" John needled. "Repeating the same thing and expecting different results?"

"Yes, thank you, _Einstein_ , I think I can manage." Rodney gripped the lighter with both hands, his expression increasingly furious.

"Just give me the damn lighter, McKay!" John then received the lighter, impacting with force on his right ear. He scowled at Rodney, flicked the button and the tinder lit straight away.

Rodney sulkily mumbled something about the lighter responding to John's ATA gene, knowing full well it was very little different to an ordinary Earth cigarette lighter.

John slowly added wood to the fire. Some of it was damp and hissed and spat, and the green wood created clouds of smoke which swirled around and made them cough. Both crept as close as they could, though, without getting singed. Night had fallen and the temperature with it; they had their fire and the riverbank behind them to keep off the worst of the wind, but it was going to be a long, cold night.

They each drank some water and ate one of the ration packs which they'd warmed up a bit by the fire and then lay down on the hard, damp ground to try to sleep.

oOo

John lay in a half doze, a stick in his hand to remind him to tend the fire. He was bitterly cold with a bone-deep ache and his muscles felt exhausted from constant shivering. The air temperature was sub-zero and the fire was the only thing keeping them alive. He sat up stiffly and added a few more sticks to the blaze, assessing their stock, hoping it would be enough and he wouldn't have to go wood-gathering in the dark. He pulled his improvised tunic around himself more tightly and shivered, hunched forward, his knees tucked close to his chest, jaw clenched to stop his teeth chattering.

Rodney was shivering too, curled into a ball, his eyes scrunched tight shut. John watched as he curled himself still tighter and edged even closer to the fire. Then he sat up.

"I c-can't d-do this, it's too c-cold!" His teeth chattered. "We need to sh-share! Come here!"

John crawled over and was quickly pulled in close with Rodney spooned up behind him, his arm round John and squeezing him tight.

"Better," commented Rodney succinctly.

"This would be romantic if I didn't think you were trying to leach all my warmth," said John.

"Share, not leach."

"Don't forget the fire," said John drowsily.

After a while Rodney began to fidget.

"My back's freezing."

"Swap."

They both sat up, John built up the fire again and then they swapped places, Rodney pulling John's arm over him and holding it tight.

"Leaching," commented John.

"Sharing," replied Rodney.

They passed the rest of the night in this way, neither getting very much sleep. The fire lit up their little corner of the night until eventually the grey outline of the mountains could be seen and then the sky slowly coloured with a faint pink-violet hue, its beauty belittling their small attempts at survival.

John sat up tiredly and put the last of the wood on the fire. He scrubbed at his face with both hands, trying to wake himself up, took out two ration packs and set them close to the fire to warm. He thought about the previous day's hike, the freezing night they'd endured and how small a distance they'd come so far. The rising sun slowly began to illuminate the valley, sparkling on the frosted slopes of the hill opposite, turning the narrow streaks of cloud a golden orange. John squinted at the sky. A cluster of faint vertical wisps could just be seen, grey against the violet.

Beside him, Rodney squirmed, grumbled and slowly sat up, stretching out his stiff muscles, his eyes going to the ration packs warming by the fire. He shivered and edged closer to the warmth.

"That ranks as one of the worst nights I've ever spent," he said, defeat in his wavering voice. "I don't think I could do that again."

John got to his feet, chewing his lower lip and still squinting into the sky.

"What?" said Rodney. "What are you looking at?"

"You might not have to spend another night like that, Rodney," John said, with growing hope. He raised his arm and pointed, turning to Rodney, with a grin. "Smoke!" he said.


	4. The Village

"Primitive stage of development," said Rodney peering down the hill, his hand held up to shade his eyes.

A cluster of small, round dwellings lay on the near side of a lake. They were similar to igloos, except stone-built and slightly conical in shape. People could be seen moving in between the houses, smoke was rising from cooking fires and out on the lake were a couple of simple rafts. There were wooden frames near the shore which, John guessed, were for drying fish.

"Should we carry on until we find a Starbucks?" suggested John.

"I didn't mean that, Sheppard! I just meant they look hunter-gatherer to me. No crops, no animal enclosures."

"I wonder what they hunt," said John. "I hope it's something you get steaks from." His stomach rumbled at the thought.

They carried on down the hill, folds of land hiding the village from view and concealing their approach, until the trail joined a rough track which followed the line of a river; to their right, higher up the valley and to the left, toward the village. There was a boy sitting with his back to them, legs dangling over the river bank. He wore clothes of rough animal fur, warm-looking but crudely stitched.

John prepared to give him a friendly smile and introduce himself and Rodney, but at the sound of their approach the boy looked around, his expression changed to one of horror and he scrambled to his feet and ran along the path to the village, yelling inarticulately.

"Oh, well, that was a good start!" said Rodney.

"He was just a kid," said John. "It's not surprising he was frightened."

They carried on along the path until they came to the cluster of stone dwellings they had seen from the hillside. The village was deserted. Cooking fires had been left untended, hides left pegged out on the ground, tools for scraping them clean abandoned.

"Where'd they all go?" Rodney said, turning on his heel.

"They're inside the houses," John whispered. "They're watching us." He raised his voice: "We don't want to hurt you!" He spread his arms, palms out, trying to look non-threatening. "We're just passing through!" John heard a thud and a cry behind him and turned to find Rodney holding his head, blood seeping from between his fingers. A large stone lay on the ground.

"What the...?" He began backing out of the village, herding Rodney behind him with one hand.

A whizzing sound and a stone hit John hard on his elbow, sending pain shooting down his arm.

"Go Rodney!" He turned, abandoning his attempt to reason with the villagers and pulling Rodney back down the path.

He felt another stone hit his back and others flew past his head. Incomprehensible jeering shouts broke out and, with a hurried glance over his shoulder, John saw the people, clad in a variety of rough animal skins, had come out of their houses and were following them, stones in their hands.

They ran, back along the track, pursued by well-aimed missiles and guttural yells, until John spotted a place where they could cross the river. He steered Rodney down the river bank and they were across, up the other side and away before the villagers could catch up with them. They had run a couple of hundred yards toward the far side of the valley before John realised they were no longer being pursued.

"Slow down, McKay, they've stopped following us!"

Rodney stumbled to a halt. "They have?"

"Yeah, they stopped at the river bank."

"Why did they attack us?" said Rodney, upset and confused. "We clearly had no weapons, we weren't being aggressive, we just needed help!"

"I think they were just frightened, Rodney," said John. "They must have had strangers come who did hurt them."

"Wraith?"

John shrugged. "Maybe." He looked at the surrounding terrain. "Let's just get a bit further away and then we'll find somewhere to stop and have a look at that cut."

"Oh," said Rodney, touching his head and looking at the blood on his fingers. "Right, yes."

They made their way up the slope for about ten minutes until they rounded a rocky outcrop that hid them from view. Rodney sat down on a rock, dejectedly, while John began sorting through the medical supplies. He found some wipes that made his nose tingle with the sharp smell of alcohol and used them to clean the cut on Rodney's temple and wipe away the rest of the blood that had run down the side of his face and neck. John looked at the cut and then began flicking through the various medical packages again.

"What are you doing? What's wrong?" said Rodney sharply. "It's serious, isn't it? I probably have concussion! Or a fractured skull!"

"Calm down Rodney," said John. "I just wanted some of those butterfly things. Or something similar. I think this'll do." He stuck a narrow sticky strip over the cut to close it.

"What are we going to do, John?" asked Rodney, miserably. "We're going to freeze to death out here tonight!"

"No, we're not, Rodney," said John placing a dressing on over the sticky strip and smoothing it down.

"Yes! Yes, we are!" Rodney insisted. "We're never getting off this stupid planet! Just because those ridiculous... cavemen wouldn't help us!"

John refrained from pointing out the fact that the people didn't live in caves. Instead he said, "Well, we tried asking nicely and that didn't work, so, just because our survival's at stake, I think it's time to turn to a life of crime!"

"What, we're going to raid the village?"

"No, we're going to find somewhere for you to hole up and then, when it's dark, _I'm_ going to raid the village."

oOo

John, crouching on the lake shore, observed the cluster of stone buildings. In the twilight he had made his way to his current position, hidden from view by the fall of the land down to the water's edge and the clumps of tall reeds. He had watched as the villagers settled for the night, families retreating to their squat stone houses, the tantalising scent of evening meals hanging in the air.

It was now fully dark and John shivered and shifted his position uncomfortably. His objectives were to gain food, something to protect them against the cold and, if possible, a weapon. The first of these items was dangling from wooden racks by the lake shore; fish drying in the cool mountain breeze. The second was more problematic. John could see a stack of dried peat blocks leaning up against one of the houses. He'd take some of that, but it was heavy and bulky and he wouldn't be able to carry much. What they really needed was clothing or some fur or heavy fabric, but that wouldn't just be left lying about. Even the uncured hides that the people had been scraping clean had been taken away. John made a decision and acted upon it.

The village had been still for a while and he felt quite safe in slipping up from the shore and, going to the drying racks, unhooking as many fish as he could fit in the messenger bag, slung over his shoulder. They were quite dry and hard and John thought they'd make pretty tough eating. The bag full, he made his silent way to the peat stack and picked up as many blocks as he could reasonably carry. Then he retraced his steps, moving carefully until he was out of earshot of the village and then hurrying less stealthily along, keen to set down his burdens.

He followed the line of the lakeshore round until he reached the thicket of thorn bushes where he had left Rodney and called out quietly before pushing his way through.

"John? Is that you?"

"You expecting someone else?"

"What did you get?"

John set down the peat blocks and the bag full of fish.

"I have to go back," he said. "Those people were wearing furs and skins and that's what we need."

"Can't I light one of these?" said Rodney, looking at the chunks of peat. "I'm freezing my butt off sitting here waiting!"

"No! We're too close to the village. Here," he said, taking off his improvised tunic, "Wear mine too. I'll be warm enough if I keep on the move."

Back at the edge of the village John studied the tiny stone houses. They had low entrances protected by a short tunnel, just like igloos and John could just make out cloth or leather curtains at the far end of each tunnel, light seeping out where they didn't quite meet the ground. As he crept silently past each entrance he felt heat radiating out into the night and caught the sound of the occasional snore.

There was one house, however, that was dark, cold and silent. Hoping it was used for some kind of storage, John crouched down and crawled inside, reaching forward awkwardly with one hand. His fingers encountered leather which moved easily to his touch. He pushed the curtain aside and went in, letting it fall back behind him.

John sat back on his heels, took out the lighter and flicked it on. The wavering flame illuminated a tightly-packed variety of items stacked on the floor and hanging from wooden pegs on the walls. There were towers of baskets containing more of the dried fish, a stack of stiff rawhides leaning against the wall, bundles of dried herbs hanging up, a coil of rawhide cord and, in a pile on the floor, some furs which looked like they'd been set aside for repair. John sorted through the furs; some small tattered children's clothes, a pair of shoes with the toes poked through. Then a couple of large pieces, old, dirty, rather smelly and in some places threadbare, they looked like they'd been used for bedding for many years and were about to be recycled. They would do. John rolled them up into a bundle and tied them together with some of the rawhide cord, cutting it off with his knife. He spotted a leather bag which looked like it was used for carrying game and took that too. He took another look around but could see nothing that would serve as a weapon.

John headed for the entrance and paused at the threshold, clutching his stolen furs, listening. His sharp hearing picked up the faintest of sounds; a tiny squeak, a soft whisper of something rustling. He froze. He counted slowly to one hundred but heard nothing more. _It must have been an animal_ , he thought. John crept out of the low entrance and straightened up. The village was totally still. He turned, set off round the curve of the storehouse and immediately came face to face with a woman, a tiny bundle clasped in her arms. She started and flinched, turned to shield her baby and uttered several low, pleading words, her eyes wide and terrified, her whole body trembling.

John held out a hand. "I won't hurt you!" he said, but she backed away, pressing herself up against the side of the storehouse, her pleas rising in volume and desperation.

John ran. Back through the village and along the lake shore as swiftly as he could before the alarm was raised and pursuit began; and with every stride he felt a burning sense of shame and guilt.


	5. Traveling

John set down his bundle on the ground.

"You got furs!" exclaimed Rodney. He sniffed and then prodded the bundle. "Smelly, old furs," he said, less enthusiastically. "Oh well, beggars can't be choosers!" he continued, beginning to untie the rawhide.

"Leave it, McKay," John said, crouching down and shoving the blocks of peat roughly in the game bag. "I think we should go, now, before daybreak."

"Why? You haven't slept at all!" said Rodney, "and I haven't much."

"Doesn't matter. I er... ran into someone in the village. A woman with a baby. We should go in case the villagers plan on hunting us down."

Rodney huffed, but got to his feet, picking up the messenger bag full of dried fish into which he'd also forced their remaining supplies from the pod.

By the pale moonlight they followed a rough trail east for a couple of miles along the shore of the lake and then, just as the sun was beginning to light the sky, turned south into a ravine which cut up into the hills.

John had been silent the whole way.

"What's wrong, Sheppard?" asked Rodney. "What happened back there?"

"Nothing," replied John, shortly.

"Yes, there is something, so spit it out!"

John sighed and looked uncomfortable.

"I'm thinking about that woman, that's all," he said. "She was terrified. Terrified of me." He paused, stopped walking, looked down at his feet. "It's my job to protect people like her, not to scare them. Or steal from them."

"You did what you had to," said Rodney quietly. "They'll be okay. They looked like they had enough to get through the winter. Anyway," he said more brightly, "When we get home we can come back with a jumper and repay them, bring them some... more fish or something!"

"I think they've got enough fish."

"Okay, well chocolate then, or coffee..."

They plodded on into the morning, Rodney keeping up a constant commentary, his voice echoing off the rocky sides of the ravine.

oOo

John and Rodney continued south, traversing mountain passes and valleys, sometimes climbing up above the snowline, sometimes sticking to the sheltered lowlands. They saw animal tracks, and once, when the wind was blowing in their faces, sweeping away their scent, they startled a herd of deer-like creatures which galloped away in a flurry of antlers and grey-brown fur. The creatures stopped in the far distance and once motionless, disappeared into the muted colours of the landscape.

With their tattered furs, carefully rationed peat blocks and whatever firewood they could find they were able to survive each bitter night. Some days they were mostly silent, their journey a never-ending endurance test of one foot in front of the other, battling against icy winds, no thought for the landscape around them other than as an enemy to be conquered. Other days they were overwhelmed by the stark beauty of their surroundings. Once, having endured a freezing night and a hard climb up a scree-covered ridge, they found themselves at the head of a valley and looked down over a huge glaciated curve filled with mist like a bright white lake, the sunlight glinting off sparkling streamers of water falling down the sheer sides of the gigantic U-shape. They stood, shoulder to shoulder. John wasn't sure whether he was uplifted by the sight or dwarfed into insignificance.

One evening, huddled around their campfire in the shelter of a rocky outcrop, Rodney was chewing thoughtfully on a tough piece of dried fish.

"I've been thinking about the cavemen," said Rodney.

"They weren't cavemen, McKay," interrupted John.

"Yeah, whatever," Rodney waved a hand dismissively. "So, firstly, is that the highest level of development on this planet? Because if so, we're screwed!"

"How d'you figure that?" John asked, morosely chewing his fish.

"Hello? Huge ocean for us to cross to reach the gate? You're not doing that on a raft!"

"Oh, guess not."

"Secondly!" Rodney continued, waving a fishtail at John, "Why couldn't we understand them? I get that their language was pretty primitive, but we should have got 'Strangers go home!' or words to that effect!"

"We didn't come through the Gate?" said John, trying to get a fish bone out of his teeth.

"Shouldn't have to! We've landed on planets before without coming through the gate and got the Ancient's super-translation service!"

"Gate's not working?" said John, his fish tasting even more like bitter cardboard than usual.

"Could be," said Rodney. "In which case, we'll have to hope it's something I can fix!"

John couldn't bring himself to care much about the workings of the Stargate; his concerns were more immediate. He worried constantly about food; their supplies were dwindling fast and there was nothing to be scavenged in this inhospitable terrain, nothing to be gathered and no animals unwary enough to be caught by inexperienced hunters with no weapons. They'd even both tried nibbling the Asgard food but it had given them stomach pains almost straight away.

Rodney had been increasingly pale and shaky before each meal until John had made him chew on the dried fish between meals to try to stabilise his blood sugar. John kept a tight hold of their food supplies, not because he thought Rodney would take more than he should; exactly the opposite, in fact. When they stopped to eat, John could pretend that he had eaten his share as they walked along and Rodney, who had taken to plodding, head down, unaware of his surroundings, was easily fooled. First John had stopped eating at midday, then he cut back on his breakfast ration, and as their supplies grew less and less, he began to cut back on his evening meal too. He was constantly hungry with a raw, grinding ache and had to force his unwilling body to carry on, finding it hard to catch his breath when they were climbing and feeling his heart beating wildly.

They had both lost weight, but one morning when John stood up to douse their fire his vision blurred and greyed and his legs collapsed beneath him. He didn't pass out, but it was close. He sat, head resting on his drawn-up knees, waiting for the hissing in his ears to subside and his head to stop spinning. Rodney slept on, oblivious.

John opened one of the very few ration packs they had left and quickly ate half of it, washing it down with water, worrying about how few water purification tablets they had left. He felt better, but was still very hungry. He folded the top of the pack to eat later; he would hold off as long as he could.

His thoughts ran along a familiar groove; what could they gather? How could they hunt? Should they keep going in the same direction? Had he chosen the right route? He knew that if they didn't encounter some kind of civilization, any kind of help soon, they would both starve.

Rodney groaned and sat up slowly, shivering. John passed him a ration pack and while Rodney, still half asleep, ate it, he packed away their belongings while sitting down, unwilling to try his legs again with Rodney watching.


	6. The Tarranai

Rodney was suspicious. He hadn't wasted his time when John had been off stealing furs and, apparently, frightening innocent villagers. He had carried out, by touch, in the dark, an inventory of their food supplies; fish, ration packs and probably inedible Asgard tablets, and he had made a rough calculation of how many days they'd last. He was suspicious because they shouldn't have lasted this long.

Rodney thought they probably resembled cavemen themselves and dirty, disreputable cavemen at that, but he thought John was looking particularly pale and gaunt. Rodney knew he himself had lost quite a bit of weight, but he had what he liked to call a 'safety margin' in that respect; John hadn't had any weight to lose in the first place. Rodney resolved to keep a sharp eye on his friend and when John insisted on him eating, Rodney would be equally insistent.

He watched as John tied up the furs into a bundle and scattered the damp ashes from their fire with shaking hands. He finished and sat, listlessly, head drooping.

"Where's yours?" Rodney said, waving his ration pack.

"Had it already."

Rodney reached for the messenger back and John tried to grab it but Rodney was quicker. It was very light; nearly empty. He drew out the pack with the foil top folded over and held it out.

"Finish it!"

"I was saving it for later."

"You need it now, Sheppard! How far do you think you can walk like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like you're so weak you can hardly stand," said Rodney. "You've been starving yourself, haven't you? So I could have extra."

"You need it more."

"Not that much more," insisted Rodney. "Now eat that before I spoon-feed you!"

"Don't have a spoon," grumbled John half-heartedly.

Rodney watched him closely as he ate, making sure he finished it.

oOo

That day Rodney led the way, for a change, up over a broad shoulder of land and when they reached the top they could see, a long way below them, an undulating sea of grassy hillocks stretching off into the blue, hazy distance. The mountains were at an end, but they could see no sign of civilization.

"Well, this is more hopeful!" said Rodney, forcing a smile. "It can't be as cold down there, at least!"

"I guess," said John unenthusiastically.

Rodney looked at John's pallid features and dull eyes; even his hair looked lifeless.

"Lunchtime!" Rodney said. "Sit!" He pointed at a rock.

"We should eat on the move if we want to be in the lowlands by nightfall," said John.

Rodney continued to point at the rock. "Sheppard, sit! That's... er, that's an order!"

"You can't give me orders, McKay!" John sat, nevertheless.

Rodney perched on the rock next to him. "I believe it's fish on the menu today!" he said, pulling one of the stiff, dried fish out of the bag and thrusting it at John. John sneered at the fish and Rodney prodded him in the arm with it. "You have to eat it when I've gone to such trouble to present it so daintily!" He poked John with the fish again and was rewarded with a choke of laughter. Rodney took one out for himself and they both began to eat.

"You know, I kind of like it, despite the texture!" Rodney said, chewing. "It's an unusual taste." He paused. "But one I've definitely acquired!"

John shook his head. "You're crazy, McKay!"

oOo

The descent to the lowlands was long but gentle. There were more signs of animal life and Rodney expected John to start talking about hunting and trapping, but he seemed to be stumbling along in a daze.

As they gradually lost height the rise in temperature was noticeable and for the first time since they'd set out on their journey, Rodney found himself uncomfortably warm. They stopped, took off their tunics and rolled them up to carry with the furs. Rodney noticed how John's clothes were loose on his thin frame and how he'd tightened his belt as far as it would go. How could it have taken him so long to notice that his friend had been starving himself in order to give Rodney extra? And now their supplies were so low there wouldn't be anything for either of them soon.

Rodney's eye was caught by a movement, black against the blue sky.

"There it is again!" he said.

"What?"

"That bird, or alien equivalent!" He pointed and John could see an eagle-like silhouette, spiralling far above them. "It's been tracking us for the last couple of hours!"

"So?"

"So, look, now it's doing that fluttering thing birds of prey do before they swoop down and kill something! Erm... you don't think it's going to swoop at us, do you?"

The bird returned to its spiralling movement and then turned and began to glide away, diving out of sight down to the lower ground.

"Must have found some easier prey," said John.

They were rounding the end of a low ridge of land when Rodney noticed two things. Firstly, that John was rubbing his eyes and squinting and his steps were weaving from side to side. Secondly, a sound, like distant thunder.

"You OK, Sheppard?" he said, scanning the sky, but seeing only the fading blue of approaching sunset.

John turned toward him with glazed, unseeing eyes, but said nothing and Rodney watched helplessly as the remaining colour drained from his already pale face and he collapsed. Rodney lurched forward, just managing to catch John's shoulders and lowering him down so that they both knelt on the ground, Rodney with his arms around his semi-conscious friend. The thundering increased and Rodney shook his head, wondering if he too was about to pass out, with the sound of blood rushing in his ears.

But then he was surrounded by movement, cloven hooves and shaggy brown legs stamping the earth all around him, making the ground vibrate so that Rodney couldn't tell if he was trembling in fear. His first fleeting thought was that they were caught in the middle of a stampede of some kind of wild creature, but then he looked up and found himself pinned by the menacing glares of cold-eyed riders, the tips of their business-like spears lowering toward him. They came to a jostling halt and Rodney's quick brain took in several facts: firstly, that they were human, as far as he could tell, secondly that their leather armour and metal shields, helmets and weapons were of very competent workmanship and therefore, thirdly, that they appeared vastly more advanced than the mountain people, three or four thousand years more advanced in terms of Earth's history.

On the arm of one of the men perched a huge reptilian bird, its head scaled and with a jutting crest and its body feathered, but with a sharp claw protruding from the bend of each wing.

Rodney realised that the man was speaking to him. His words were familiar yet strangely distorted as if the syllables were sliding sideways out of Rodney's grasp. The man spoke again, questioningly and it was as if the words clicked into place.

"Who are you that trespass on the land of the Tarranai? You are not of the hill folk!"

"No!" said Rodney, tightening his grip on John's boneless form. "We crossed the mountains but... um... We don't come from the mountains, we were lost..."

The man interrupted Rodney's ramblings, his voice showing surprise. "By your speech you are from the distant south!"

"Oh, er, yes! The south, definitely! We were... um... set upon by bandits!" said Rodney, improvising. "Our mounts and provisions were stolen."

"The hill folk?" asked the man, frowning. "They are usually only aggressive when threatened. They live in fear of the evil that comes from the sky. As do we all," he said solemnly. "But regardless of how you have come here, travelers from the far South are, of course, welcome on my lands and it seems you and your friend are in need of help." He handed the bird to the rider next to him and dismounted nimbly, saying "I am Sir Geran, these are the men of my Hall."

"Dr Rodney McKay and this is Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard."

"Strange names you southern knights have! May I call you Sir Rodney and Sir John?"

Rodney nearly gave in to hysterical laughter. "Yes, knights! That's us! Knights on a quest!" He could quite easily have sat there and cried; Dungeons and Dragons, when all he wanted was a decent meal.

Sir Geran knelt down next to them. "What ails Sir John?" he asked.

"He's starving! We both are! And he's sick too," Rodney said, feeling the unnatural heat of John's body. John shifted and his eyes scrunched tight and then opened blearily.

"It is well that Hewin found you!" At Rodney's puzzled look he smiled and gestured at the intimidating bird-reptile. "Hewin flies for me and marks anything unusual. Did you not see him hovering over you?"

"Oh, yes, but we didn't realise..."

Sir Geran took a flask from a pouch at his belt, unstoppered it and held it to John's lips, tipping in a little of the dark red liquid. John swallowed, his eyes opened wider and Geran offered him the flask again. He drank eagerly until Geran took the flask away, leaving a blood-red trail at the corner of his mouth, which Rodney quickly wiped away.

"What is that stuff?" he asked, watching as awareness awoke in John's eyes and colour began to come back to his skin.

"It is made from the sweetest fruits of the summer, but the recipe is a secret of my people," replied Geran. "You should have some too," he said, offering the flask to Rodney. "We will return to my Hall now. I will see about unburdening our pack animal so that you may ride."

Rodney let go of John carefully, not entirely convinced he could sit without support, and took the flask. "I hope there's no citrus in this," he muttered, sniffing the drink suspiciously. "I suppose it wouldn't grow in this climate." He took a sip. It was incredibly sweet and cloying and he immediately felt the hit of the sugar. "Whoa! That's enough of that. Or maybe just a little more."

"Here is a mount to carry you both." Geran led one of their animals forward.

Rodney looked at the creature doubtfully. Its appearance was a cross between a mule and a goat, with long, shaggy fur, very long ears and cloven hooves. Rodney didn't like the look of it. He thought it had an evil glint in its yellow eye as if it were deciding whether to bite or kick him.

"Um... I don't think..."

"Do not be concerned for the beast!" said Geran. "He is strong and well able to carry you both!"

"That wasn't what I meant," Rodney muttered.

John, who had been sitting with his head resting on his bent knees, looked up at the animal, then held out a shaky hand. The creature lowered its head and sniffed at John's hand; a long, grey-blue tongue came out and licked his fingers. John reached up and ruffled the stiff hair between its ears; the creature's eyes closed and its ears drooped to either side in apparent satisfaction.

 _Typical_ , thought Rodney, _now he can add alien mules to his list of conquests!_

They were both boosted up onto the back of the creature, John behind and Rodney in front.

"There aren't even any stirrups!" said Rodney, "I'm going to fall off!"

"No, you're not. Hold onto his mane. He won't mind. Anyway, I've got you," said John, putting his arms round Rodney's waist and linking his hands.

"But who's got you?"

John sighed and Rodney felt him slump against his back. "Muffin won't let me fall, will you Muffin?"

Rodney and the mule both snorted.


	7. Hospitality

Rodney had decided that alien mule-things were not his favourite mode of transport. The jolting gait of the animal was bruising him in places he didn't want to think about and more than once he thought he was going to slide off to one side or the other. John, behind him, just seemed to relax into the motion and balance; Rodney suspected he was actually asleep as he had been jabbed in the back by John's chin a couple of times when his head nodded. Now he could feel John's forehead resting against his neck and shoulder. Rodney rode with one hand gripping the short tufts of the mule's mane together with the reins (although he was convinced the mule wouldn't take a blind bit of notice of him no matter what he did with the reins) and one hand gripping both of John's, holding them round his waist. Whether this was helping John or Rodney to stay on was debatable.

The mules slowed as they began to climb a rocky track and Rodney breathed a sigh of relief at the change from the bruising up and down jolt to a broad swaying motion. He looked up to see a wooden palisade which surrounded the top of a low hill, a solid black shape against the indigo blue of the night sky.

Geran came up alongside Rodney.

"We approach my Hall!" he said. "And then you will see what hospitality the folk of Tarrana can offer. My wife, the Lady Tarva will be waiting with hot baths and meat and drink prepared for us!"

Rodney almost whimpered in anticipation, but managed just to smile and nod his thanks.

Geran looked at John.

"Does your friend come from a people such as mine? He rides in his sleep as one born in the saddle."

"I think he's just good at that kind of thing," said Rodney, tentatively turning his head to look over his shoulder. "And very tired. And," he squirmed to touch John's forehead with his chin, "hot."

"Do not worry, Lady Tarva will know what to do!"

Tall gates in the palisade opened and Rodney saw that a large wooden building took up about half of the space within, the rest being given over to mule pens and smaller storage buildings. The Hall was thatched and smoke rose from openings in the roof. A welcoming glow of firelight shone out into the night as well as the even more welcoming aroma of roasting meat. Rodney's stomach churned in painful hollowness.

The mules came to a halt and the riders began to dismount. A woman, dressed in a long, severely cut gown, stood before the entrance to the hall, standing stiff and straight with her chin lifted as if in anticipation of conflict. Her hair, Rodney observed, was parted and braided with mathematical precision, the two long, tight braids framing her face and falling as straight as rulers to her waist.

"My Lord," she said, with a falsely sweet smile, "I expected you long since! Did you not think to send a rider ahead to inform your poor lady wife that you had chosen to tarry over your journey?"

Geran dismounted from his mule and kissed his wife dutifully.

"We met some strangers on the road, my dear," he replied, with an anxious smile. "Travelers from the far South in need of help!"

The Lady's eyes skimmed critically across Rodney and John, taking in their filthy, tattered and unshaven appearance. Two phrases popped into Rodney's mind. The first, one used frequently by his maternal grandmother, 'an expression that would have curdled milk' fitted Tarva quite well. The other phrase, that he had heard uttered in a broad Northern English accent by one of his minions, 'a face like a slapped arse' seemed even more appropriate. She did not look like a woman who relished the thought of offering hospitality to two such disreputable looking travelers. She turned to her husband and began speaking, fast and low, with many sharp hand gestures.

Rodney wasn't sure how to get off his mule or how his legs and bruised nether regions would feel if he did. The animal put its head down to nibble at a few strands of hay on the ground and Rodney took the opportunity to swing his leg over its neck and slither awkwardly to the ground, forgetting to bend his knees on landing and jarring his legs. He stood, legs trembling, leaning against the mule's shoulder; it turned its head slightly and gave him a look of contempt. John still sat, slumped on the animal's back. Rodney prodded his leg.

"Sheppard! Wake up!"

John's eyes opened slightly, he uttered a bleary, "Huh!" at his surroundings, flopped forward onto the mule's neck and slid off in what would have been an efficient dismount if his legs hadn't crumpled beneath him. Fortunately Rodney was ready and caught him under his arms and lowered him once more to the ground.

"Don't feel so good."

"I know," replied Rodney. He raised his voice, "A little help needed here, please! Man down!"

Lady Tarva stopped berating her husband and with quick snaps of her fingers and brisk commands, John was carried into the hall and Rodney was ushered in a different direction.

"I think I should go with ...!" he began to protest.

Sir Geran laid a steering hand on his shoulder. "Worry not, Sir Rodney! My wife is an accomplished herbalist and will look after your friend."

oOo

There was a wash-house at the side of the hall that looked like it was used for washing clothes as well as people. Rows of tubs were filled with herb-scented hot water and if privacy was in short supply, Rodney was far too aware of his by now ripe aroma to care. In twenty minutes flat he emerged from the steam a very different man from the tattered vagabond who had gone in. He was clean-shaven and had been lent clean clothes, a simple woollen shirt and trousers. He would have liked to linger in the hot water to ease his many aches and pains, but was far too keen to get to the food and to find out what had happened to John.

He entered the main room of the hall. There was a large central fire over which meat was roasting and long tables around three sides of the room. Rodney's mouth watered at the smell and sight of the platters of meat and bread and various stews; it seemed that Sir Geran's people didn't go short even in the winter.

Sir Geran himself sat at the centre of the head table. He saw Rodney and gestured him over, making room on the bench beside him and calling a servant to bring another plate.

Rodney gladly sat down and for a considerable time was solely occupied in filling and then rapidly emptying his plate. Any questions put to him by his host were met with an enthusiastic but unintelligible answer and an expressive wave of a hand. After a while Sir Geran smiled and allowed Rodney to eat his fill uninterrupted.

Rodney, reluctantly admitting to himself that he was too full even to manage one of the cakes that had been brought out, looked round for somewhere to wipe his greasy fingers. He noticed other people using the edge of the tablecloth, shrugged and did the same. Guiltily, he realised that he'd totally forgotten to ask about John in his desperation to fill his empty stomach.

He turned to Sir Geran, who had anticipated his question. "Sir John is being tended by my wife and her ladies in one of the rooms above." Rodney looked up to see a galleried landing with doors leading off. "He will be well cared for," reassured Sir Geran, "Stay! There will be entertainment!"

"I think I'll just go check on Sheppard," said Rodney, getting up and heading for the stairs.

The volume of convivial chat and laughter in the hall had risen since most of the people had finished eating, but even above that, when Rodney reached the top of the rustic wooden staircase he could hear Tarva's strident tones coming from one of the rooms. He caught the phrases, "...enough to do without extra guests!" and "...filthy clothes!" followed by "...from who knows where!" A young woman came out of the room carrying John's clothes and another came out carrying a bucket of water; both blushed and looked embarrassed when they saw Rodney and gave him sympathetic smiles.

Rodney entered the room to find John looking clean but very pale, in a low, narrow bed, blankets pulled up under his chin. His shadowed eyes were closed and there was a deep furrow between his brows. There was another bed and a low table between them. The room was dimly lit by a candle in a lantern hanging from the rafters.

Lady Tarva noticed Rodney and gave him an up-and-down look, eyebrows raised as if checking he was clean enough to enter her presence.

"You are not required here, _Sir_ Rodney," she said, obviously still inclined to the opinion that her guests were not deserving of the title bestowed on them by her husband. "I am a competent nurse and will do what I can for your companion."

"He'll be alright, won't he?"

"People who have been starved often pick up infections," she said briskly. "I have seen it before in hard winters!" She looked at John with disinterest and remarked, "Sometimes they survive."

"Sometimes!" said Rodney, in disbelief. "He just needs some food and a couple of days rest!"

"Well, you know best," she said grimly with patent scepticism.

Rodney stood, shuffling his feet uncomfortably, watching Tarva's none too tender ministrations. His instinct was to throw the woman out on her ear whilst delivering her a few choice examples of his own brand of sarcasm. But would that be the best thing for Sheppard? Physics and math he could deal with; give him hard, cold facts and he could manipulate them and come out with a solution to virtually any scientific problem. But with anything medical, he was completely out of his depth. Presumably this woman knew what she was doing. 

He watched as she roughly straightened John's blankets and checked his pulse, letting his arm fall back onto the bed. She then took a cup of water from the table and, pushing John's head up briskly with her other hand, tried to make him drink. His eyes opened in confusion and discomfort and he choked, water running down his chin.

"That's enough!" said Rodney, snatching the cup from her and steering her firmly toward the door. "I think I can take it from here! Thank you very much indeed and goodbye!" He slammed the door, cutting off Tarva's outrage. 

He leant back against the door, wondering if Lady Tarva's influence on her husband was such that they would find themselves out in the cold in short order. He looked down at John who was moving restlessly beneath the blankets, his cheeks now stained red with the heat of a mounting fever. Rodney knelt down next to him.

"Sheppard! John! Look at me!"

John's head turned slightly and his glassy gaze focused on his friend.

"Rodney," he rasped.

Rodney poured out some more water and, carefully supporting John's head and shoulders, held it for him to drink. John drank, cleared his throat and brought his hand up to grip Rodney's arm. "Keep that woman away from me!" he said, urgently.

"Why?" said Rodney, alarmed. "What did she do?"

"She's mean!" John said, less distinctly and then his arm flopped back onto the bed and his features relaxed into sleep.

Rodney gently patted his shoulder. "I won't leave you again," he whispered.


	8. Recovery

John had been dimly aware of arriving at the hall, had heard Rodney's voice and seen the flickering red and yellow of firelight in the darkness. He remembered trying to dismount and then nothing, until it seemed he had been plunged into a world of noise and irritation. He had felt himself being pulled and pushed, tugged here and there, became suddenly aware of being naked and that someone or possibly even two or three people were washing him, with, he felt, no concern for his dignity or comfort. When he tried to protest, the already forceful voice penetrating his sluggish consciousness became even more harshly acerbic so that he just gave in and let whoever it was do what they wanted; maybe they'd go away soon and leave him with his aching head and body and the hot flushes and cold chills that were alternating confusingly.

Then Rodney was there. The forceful, acerbic, strident tones were Rodney's and he was as pleased to hear them directed at himself with periodic commands to lie still, drink and eat as he was to hear them echoing somewhere further away, demanding this and that and, in his fevered dreams John pictured Rodney as a circus ringmaster, his whip cracking at the heels of his performers to make them leap to do his bidding. It was the continuation of this dream to the inevitable nightmare of clowns that woke him properly to full awareness, the garishly painted faces and clashing clothes fading from his vision as he took in his real surroundings.

It was dark and above him was a flickering light, not bright enough to hurt even his sensitive eyes. He turned his head and there was Rodney, fast asleep, lying on his back with his mouth open. He smacked his lips and muttered in his sleep, something about "Zelenka...power fluctuations...morons!" John started to laugh, which turned into a cough, which wouldn't stop and made his head throb. Rodney leapt out of bed and helped John to sit up, holding a cup of water for him to drink. John drank gratefully, then sagged against Rodney's shoulder, breathing heavily, alarmed that he couldn't support his own weight.

"Thank you," he said.

"Oh!" Rodney sounded surprised. "Are you actually you this time? I mean awake and here with me rather than thinking you're in some crazy fairyland or wherever?"

"There were no fairies, McKay," John said indistinctly, thinking of Rodney in a ringmaster's outfit. 

Rodney fumbled on the table, saying, "You should take one of these, you still have a fever." He popped a pill into John's mouth and followed it up with more water.

"What was that?" asked John. Rodney carefully lowered him back down.

"Well, I'm not actually sure, it was from the escape pod. But look." He held the blister pack up. "See here, right in the corner!"

"I can't see anything," said John, squinting.

"There," Rodney pointed. "It's like a tiny little emoji, mouth turned down, steam coming off it, so I thought, that must be for fever!"

"Using me as a guinea pig?"

"No, of course not! I took one first and I was okay, so I thought it'd be okay for you."

"Oh. Thanks, Rodney." John yawned and felt his eyelids drooping. He tried to force them open again.

Rodney said, "Go back to sleep," and it seemed easiest to comply.

oOo

The next thing that woke John was the welcome smell of food; something meaty, he thought. He opened his eyes to find Rodney setting down a tray on the table.

"Ah, good, you're awake!" he said. "Breakfast time! Or lunchtime, depending on how you look at it."

"What time is it? In fact, what day is it?" asked John as Rodney helped him to sit up.

"It's past mid-day," said Rodney, "and this is our third day here. It's Friday, Atlantis time, if that helps."

"Not really. Third?" John rubbed his eyes tiredly and sagged. Just sitting up was exhausting and everything felt heavier than it should. Since when did arms weigh so much?

"Here," said Rodney, shoving his pillow and half of his bedding behind John's back. "Does that help?"

"Yeah, that's not so bad."

Rodney set the tray on his lap and picked up the bowl of stew. "So, if I hold this can you...?"

"Yes!" said John, hurriedly. "You don't have to spoon feed me like a baby!" He picked up the spoon and began to eat. The stew was delicious and the meat cooked so well he hardly had to chew it. It was embarrassing how quickly his arm began to shake, though; he swapped hands and continued to eat, frowning.

"What?" said Rodney.

"I just don't like losing time!" said John, between mouthfuls. " _Third_ day?" Rodney nodded. "So we got here late evening. I lost the next day and the day after that and now it's today."

"It's always today," remarked Rodney unhelpfully, tipping the bowl for John to get the last couple of spoonfuls. John finished the stew but continued sucking the spoon thoughtfully.

"So I must've been drinking in all that time?"

"Water, broth, yes of course, you were starving!"

"Um... so I must've..." John's cheeks reddened. Rodney rolled his eyes and set the bowl back on the tray. He reached under the bed and held up another bowl.

"Is this what you're after?"

"Couldn't I...?" John looked around the room.

"No, there isn't a bathroom. Apart from some primitive arrangement outside. And no, you can't go. I saw how the immense weight of that spoon challenged you! I'll just wait outside, while you, whatever...!"

John used the bowl and Rodney marched back in and put it on the tray with a total lack of embarrassment. He picked up the tray and headed for the door again.

"Wait up, Rodney!" Rodney turned, halfway out of the door. "Did I dream some kind of crazy woman? Rough hands? Loud voice?"

Rodney looked over his shoulder and then turned back, lowering his voice. "I believe you refer to the delightful Lady Tarva!" he said.

"Oh." said John. "You threw her out?" Rodney nodded. "Good call."

"I aim to please," said Rodney, disappearing through the door.

Later that afternoon John was dozing when there came a tentative tap at the door. He called, "Come in!" and Sir Geran sidled into the room, looking shifty. John only had hazy memories of his host and so was interested to meet him. 

"I do not wish to disturb you, Sir John," he began, tugging at his beard nervously.

John raised an eyebrow and tried not to smirk, having been unaware that he and Rodney had been raised to the peerage. "You're not disturbing me," he said. "I was getting kinda bored."

"Oh!" said Sir Geran. "May I?" He gestured to the other bed and, John having nodded his assent, sat down. He leant forward conspiratorially and spoke in a low voice. "I would not wish to incur the wrath of Sir Rodney! He has been most protective of you and would allow none to enter! My wife, the Lady Tarva, was, to tell the truth, a little put out! But Sir Rodney also was... most forceful in his opinions, so that..."

"Caught between a rock and a hard place?" interrupted John.

"I have not heard the expression before, but, yes, you have it exactly!" Sir Geran smiled.

"I'm sorry you've been put in a difficult position," said John. "We're very grateful for your help."

"Any Tarranai worthy of the name would have done as much!" said Sir Geran. John could think of one who wouldn't, but diplomatically said nothing. "I am glad to see you much recovered!"

"Yeah, me too!" said John.

At this point Rodney returned and Sir Geran made a hasty exit. 

"Have you been terrorising these folks?" said John.

"Just asserting my authority as a member of the Knighthood!" said Rodney, preening a little.

"What's that all about?"

Rodney looked thoughtful. "Sir Geran just assumed, for some reason," he said. "Knights from the distant south, he called us. What's interesting is that at first I didn't understand his speech. It seemed distorted somehow. And then after a couple of sentences it clicked into place." He snapped his fingers.

"So the Gate is working," said John, shivering slightly.

"Maybe some kind of planetwide field we've not met before," said Rodney vaguely, his mind not really on his words. He watched John narrowly. John shivered again and Rodney reached forward to touch his forehead. John batted his hand away. "Your temp's up again." Rodney reached for the alien Tylenol and the water.

"I'm fine, McKay."

"No, you're not!" he said passing the pill followed by the water to John. "And if you're planning an escape attempt any time soon, let me tell you now, you won't get away with it! I'll sit on you if I have to!"

"Whoa, calm down McKay! You're worse than Beckett or Keller!"

"Yes," Rodney said simply but with emphasis, "I am."


	9. Something Squirelly

John sat down heavily on the end of the bench and sagged forward, his forearms resting on his thighs, his head hanging down. After a minute he caught his breath and sat up to see Rodney watching him with concern.

"Better?" asked Rodney.

"Yeah, it was just all those stairs!" He looked back at the short distance he'd come; out of his room, down the stairs and a couple of yards across the hall. He sighed and shook his head.

"Come on, Sheppard, you'll be running circuits of this place in no time! Here, your reward for all that work." Rodney pushed a bowl of oatmeal across the table to John. "It's got some of that fruit syrup stuff in it. I made it myself! Well, actually I bullied the kitchen staff, but the thought was there."

"Be nice, Rodney," said John, picking up the spoon. "These people have been good to us!"

"Okay, I didn't bully them!" admitted Rodney. "They jump to obey my every command, for some reason." He paused, thoughtfully. "I think they like me!" He looked puzzled.

"Maybe they just don't hate you as much as Lady Macbeth."

"Oh, yes, I suppose that's it." Rodney's expression drooped.

"I was kidding, McKay! Why shouldn't they like you?" John continued to eat his oatmeal.

It was late morning and the Hall was quiet, everyone else having had their breakfast long since and gone about their daily work. A cold, wintry light shone through the open door of the Hall and sounds drifted in; shouts, laughter, the creak of wood, the strange calls of alien animals.

John finished his oatmeal and his eyes drifted toward the outside world. He flicked a doubtful glance at Rodney.

"Ten minutes!" said Rodney, frowning. "And that's if you make it that far! And you'll need this!" Rodney slung a heavy woollen cape around John's shoulders and fastened it in front.

John opened his mouth to speak but Rodney interrupted. "No need to call me Mom or Nurse McKay or anything of that sort." John's mouth closed. "Come on, then," said Rodney, grabbing his own cape.

The frosty air made John shiver despite his warm clothes. He scrunched up his eyes, unaccustomed to the bright, cold light and pulled the cape tight around his body. The ground felt hard and he could see that the mud had frozen into the stiff ruts and hollows of hoof and bootprints. Frost sparkled on every surface, outlining the buildings and fences in white and everywhere there were plumes of warm breath from both people and animals.

"It's like a farmyard on steroids out here!" remarked Rodney crossly as a flock of small sheep-like creatures nearly knocked his legs from under him. A man carrying a huge sack over his shoulder bumped into John and Rodney hastily grabbed John's arm and pulled him out of the way, towing him over to a heap of bulging sacks that were leaning against the palisade. They sat down on the sacks to watch the activity. As well as the minisheep, strange curly-horned cattle were being driven into pens, sacks of grain and root vegetables were being unloaded from carts and barrels were being rolled into storage sheds.

"Um, excuse me, Sirs."

"Yes, what is it?" said Rodney impatiently.

The man gestured at the sacks they were sitting on. "I need to move those...Sirs. Sorry!"

"This is ridiculous!" Rodney grumbled. "Let's go in!"

"No, wait," John said. He spoke to the man, "It's late in the year to be storing your harvest, isn't it?"

"Oh no, this isn't our harvest, this is the Gift," said the man. "From the Queen." He smiled. "I bet you've seen the wagons set off some years, haven't you? From all the way down there in the south?"

"Uh, yeah!" said John.

"And look," the man pointed, "that's the last wagon, which is for the hill folk. They don't take it all the way north, of course, the hill folk meet it in the foothills."

"Of course!" Rodney nodded, as if he had a clue what was going on.

The man hefted a sack and carried on with his work.

"Well that's strange!" said John. "Isn't it usually the other way round? Outlying areas send tribute to the capital?"

"Who knows how they do things here! Alien world? Bound to be alien farming practices! They probably dance round their crops, chanting in the moonlight or some such nonsense!" Rodney began to stomp grumpily toward the hall but stopped when he realised John wasn't following. John stood, looking thoughtful, chewing his lower lip. Rodney noticed he looked pale and still very thin. "Come on, Sheppard," he said, taking John's arm. "You can do your thinking inside, by the fire."

oOo

Rodney picked up a couple of logs and dropped them onto the centre of the glowing coals, picking up a long, iron poker and prodding the glow to a flame. John sat on the bench next to him, still silent. Eventually he gave a snort of laughter and his characteristic smirk crept across his face.

"What?"

John shook his head. "Nothing, really. I was trying to puzzle this place out and I think I must be channelling General O'Neill. 'Squirrelly', he'd say. There's something squirrelly."

"He might say 'hinky'"

"Yeah, that too, squirrelly and/or hinky."

"Okay, Sherlock, what evidence do we have?" began Rodney. "No, that's no good, I should be Sherlock with my brilliant mind! You can be Watson..."

"Rodney!" interrupted John. "Focus!"

"Oh, right, yes... So we know that the further south you travel the stronger the ability of the gate to translate."

"And then there's the way these people live," added John.

"Well, yes, the hill people were still in the Stone Age and here..." Rodney looked around. "Late Iron Age, at least! I mean, there are going to be some areas more advanced than others, but by this much? No!"

"How does that work? Someone's corrupted the gate system to stop progress?"

"I've never pretended to understand how the Gate translates worldwide... although actually maybe I have pretended... Anyway! If the field the Gate emits allows us to all act like we've got Babel fish stuck in our ears, presumably it could be adapted to do other things."

"So people start thinking, 'Inventing the wheel? Not such a great idea!'"

"Yes, and throwing rocks at harmless scientists becomes _de riguer_."

John ignored Rodney's complaint and continued, "The translation doesn't work properly because the Gate's being made to keep these people in the dark ages?"

"The dark ages was after the Iron Age, Sheppard, but, yes, maybe. Or maybe it's deliberate; stop people communicating in order to isolate them."

They both stared into the flames, thinking.

"It reminds me of Olesia," said John finally. "Give the Wraith what they want so they'll leave the rest of the planet alone."

"The prison colony, yes, I see what you mean," agreed Rodney. "But whereas they used a stick, this is more of a carrot situation."

"The 'Gift'," said John sourly. "These folks are so busy being grateful for having plenty to eat all winter, they don't realise they're being fattened up like turkeys for Thanksgiving!"

Rodney nodded. "Encourage population growth, then send in the Darts."

"Except we don't know the Wraith even come here!"

"Well, yes we do actually," said Rodney. "Sir Geran said something about 'living in fear of the evil that comes from the sky'."

"I don't remember that!"

"Well, you wouldn't, you were lying on the ground, half dead from starvation and fever. And speaking of starvation..."

John turned in surprise as a tray containing a plate of cakes and two cups of something was set down on the table behind him. A short, sturdily curvaceous woman smiled at them both, but with an extra wide smile and a wink for Rodney, John observed, bobbed a curtsey and bustled off in the direction of the kitchens.

Rodney grabbed a cake in each hand and began gobbling greedily. "These are great!" he said, spraying crumbs. "Have one!" John picked up a cake and began eating. It tasted of spices and honey.

"Who was that?" he asked.

"That was Berna, the cook."

John choked on his cake. "Great name!" he said. "Does she?"

"Does she what?"

"Burn things!"

"Oh, ha ha, I bet you're the first to think of that."

The plate of cakes was soon gone, Rodney having allowed John his fair share for a change. They sat watching the play of the flames until Rodney realised John's eyes were glazed and his head was nodding, whereupon he insisted John go up to their room to lie down, silencing his protests by the simple expedient of ignoring them.

oOo

That evening, John and Rodney both attended the communal meal for the first time since they had arrived at Sir Geran's Hall. They were greeted warmly by Sir Geran and there were many enquiries after John's health and congratulations on his recovery. John felt the Lady Tarva's gimlet eyes boring into him and raised his glass of wine in her direction, smirking cheerily, while knowing full well she had been, at best, indifferent to his survival. He enjoyed her look of disdain as she turned turned away haughtily, but did not get to enjoy his wine.

"No, I don't think so, Sheppard!" Rodney pushed the glass away from John's lips. "You need to put on some more weight. You'll be on the floor in five minutes if you drink that." John shrugged and set the wine down.

"I prefer beer anyway," he said.

For the rest of the meal, John and Rodney's conversation was minimal, not just because they were making up for lost meals, but because they had agreed to listen out for as much information as they could.

"The problem is," Rodney had said, "we're supposed to know all this stuff, so we can't ask any of it! What the road south is like, how far it is to the ocean, if the Queen's actually a Wraith, that kind of thing!"

When everyone had finished eating, John thought they'd be able to move around the Hall 'gathering intel.' but was thwarted by Sir Geran's call for storytelling. Everyone had to listen to the heroic stories that he preferred, which all began with the same formula. The first storyteller began, "I will tell you the tale of Torva Thunderfist who slew the mountain giant!" This met with general acclaim and the Hall was silent as the storyteller spoke. When the story came to an end, Sir Geran called for more. The next speaker began, "I will tell you of Yorrin Warhammer who fought the rampaging trolls!" which was met with some discontent and mutterings of "Not the trolls again!" The trolls vanquished, there seemed to be a general rumbling toward calling it a night, but once again Sir Geran rose. This time, however, he called for "our new friends, Sir John and Sir Rodney to tell us of their life in the far South and the quest that has brought them to us!" Rodney sat rigid, eyes flicking this way and that as if searching for an escape route. But John rose to his feet, casually, thumbs tucked into his belt and drawled, "I think we can do better than that!" He paused and looked round the room, making sure he had everyone's attention. "I will tell you of Spiderman who fought with the Green Goblin!" There was an excited buzz of approval and then the Hall fell totally silent.


	10. On the Road

Rodney sat on his bed, crunching a rather tasteless fruit. He wondered if it was under-ripe or just not very nice. He took another large bite, chewing doggedly, and observed his friend. John, exhausted by last night's enthusiastic storytelling, including the several encore chapters he'd been encouraged to add by popular acclaim, was still asleep. His eyes were shadowed, the bones of the wrist poking out from beneath the blankets too prominent and Rodney had been annoyed the previous night, when the storytelling was finally over, at John's attempts to hide the fact that he was running a low-grade fever again. John had received a frustrated "Chuh!" from Rodney, swiftly followed by an alien Tylenol and an order to, "Just go to bed, Sheppard!"

Rodney had overheard some important facts while eating his meal the night before. He had sat not far from one of the wagon-drivers and had learnt, to his dismay, that it would take what he had worked out to be approximately two months earth time to reach Erransport, where ships departed for the continent on which the Stargate was located. The fact that Rodney had been able to put together a plan of action to cover this vast distance and to achieve the funds necessary to cover passage across the ocean did not much cheer him up; they would have to depart the following day and he didn't think John was ready.

Rodney knelt on the floor so that his mouth was right next to John's ear and took a very large, very crunchy bite from his fruit. John's hand shot out and he had grabbed Rodney's throat before his eyes were even open. He let go at Rodney's choking cry and sat up, looking rumpled and still half asleep.

"What d'you do that for, McKay?"

"Not because I wanted to be strangled!" said Rodney, rubbing his throat. "We need to talk!"

"So talk!" John said grumpily.

"We have to leave tomorrow," Rodney began abruptly. "The wagon train is leaving and one of the drivers wants to stay here - his family live in Tarrana. So we can take his wagon back to the depot and collect the rest of his pay, which we can use to pay for a pleasant ocean voyage to get us at least to the same continent as the Stargate."

John blinked and sat up a little straighter, running a hand through his hair. "Oh! Well... good!"

"Yes, that's just great, isn't it? Because two months in an open wagon is just what we need!"

"Two months?" John ran his hand through his hair again, rubbing at the back of his neck. He let out a long sigh and shrugged. "We knew it was a long way. What do we do for food? I guess we have to sleep in the wagon."

"No, actually, we don't. The wagons are a public service paid for by 'Her Highness' so we get food and accommodation at the village waystations."

"Well, that's not so bad then, is it?"

Rodney slumped in his awkward position on the floor and picked at a splinter of wood, pulling it loose from the planking. He sighed and twiddled the splinter in his fingers, opened his mouth and shut it again. John waited. Then Rodney's words all came out in a rush.

"I keep thinking, maybe Zelenka will come up with something, maybe they'll come for us and all of a sudden we'll find ourselves on the bridge of the Daedalus and we can go home and carry on with our normal lives, although what normal us I'm never quite sure..." He trailed off, still picking at the edge of the plank. John said nothing.

"But they won't. Come for us. They won't, because there's nothing for Zelenka to come up with. That time you got taken, you sent that subspace Morse code." Rodney let out a huff of humourless laughter. "Typical Sheppard improvisation."

John squirmed on the bed and said softly, "We'll get home, Rodney, we always do eventually."

"Yes, but you see I could have done something!" Back on the Traveler ship! I could have sent something, anything, some kind of marker, some kind of 'We were here!' anything, just somewhere to start looking!"

"You did enough, you got us away," said John. "There wasn't time for more."

"Maybe," Rodney said flatly. "All I know is, Atlantis won't be looking any more, because how can they when there's the whole galaxy to search? And now we have to sit in a stupid cart for two months and then get on a boat and I'll be seasick and I want to go home."

"Finished?"

"Yes." Rodney still sat slumped on the floor. "This is the point where I pick myself up and carry on, isn't it?"

"Yup."

Rodney unfolded himself slowly and stood up. "I'm going to the kitchen to find cake," he said.

"You do that, Rodney."

oOo

They set out in the frosty early morning darkness the following day, five mule-drawn wagons that would be joined by others along the route and six armed outriders whose job it was to protect the convoy.

Lady Tarva was conspicuous by her absence in the farewell party, but Berna, the cook, bid Rodney a tearful goodbye and Sir Geran, his bird Hewin on his arm, rode with them for half a day and then left them and turned back to his Hall.

As it happened it was Rodney and not John who suffered for the first part of their journey. Whereas John visibly gained weight and energy each day, Rodney began to exhibit symptoms of a head cold, sniffing and sneezing and eventually huddling miserably in the empty back of the wagon, covering himself with blankets and making a kind of tent of a pile of tarpaulins. John drove the wagon, simply holding the reins and allowing the mules to follow their friends and stop where they stopped. The mules, one tall and stoic and one skinny and worried-looking, had swiftly been named Ronon and Zelenka, despite the fact that Zelenka was a girl. "Small, skinny and look at that scruffy hair between its ears!" Rodney had said, sniffing.

The waystations were simple taverns with one or two bedrooms containing as many rough pallets as were required. The food was also basic but John and Rodney were not far enough removed from their trek across the mountains to complain.

One evening, the wagoners sat in the common room, drinking rough local ale and John, having left a sneezing Rodney to sleep in the room above, sat down with them. They had a map spread on the table, the corners weighted down with tankards, and were marking off the villages they had passed. John noticed some of the villages had thick black crosses through them.

"What does that mean?"

Gorrat, who usually drove directly in front of John, replied, casually, "That village is gone."

"Gone?"

"Taken! You know, by the silver flyers. When was that, Derran? Year before last?"

Derran nodded agreement.

"Any of these ones crossed out, they're gone." Gorrat pointed to about ten villages along the road.

"That one there," Derran said, pointing with a callussed finger, "Folks have moved back in."

Gorrat scratched at the waxy black cross with his fingernail, to little effect. "Have to make a new map sometime," he grunted. "Anyway, what it means is, if we're coming up on an empty village, we carry food from the waystation before and sleep in the wagons that night."

Gorrat's matter-of-fact way of regarding the 'taken' villages told John a lot about how these people had got used to living with the threat of the wraith. By careful questioning, not to seem too suspiciously ignorant, he gathered that the attacks had resumed about five years ago after a long break. Just after the wraith had been woken from hibernation, in fact. Gorrat said, "About the time the Queen took the throne. Don't know what we would have done without her, setting up the annual Gift and all!" There was a general chorus of approval and some raised tankards. John left them and went to bed ruthlessly suppressing his anger.

oOo

The monotony of the days wore at Rodney's spirits. He felt he could draw from memory the backs of the two mules, mapping in detail the patterns and whorls in their fur and the shape of their ears. He had worked out the exact ratio of Zelenka's jolting little hops to Ronon's long lazy strides. He often simply drifted in thoughts of Atlantis imagining himself working on a problem in his lab and then jolted back to the reality of the hard bench seat of the wagon and the backs of the mules in front of him.

John, by contrast, defended himself against boredom by exercising. He ran up and down the wagon train several times a day, hopping on and off different vehicles to chat to the drivers. Sometimes he would linger at their overnight stop for an hour or so and then run to catch up with the convoy. If he sat on their wagon for any length of time he would become restless and his legs would start twitching until Rodney would offer to throw a stick for him or ask if he wanted to join the mules pulling the cart.

At last they approached Erransport. They had seen no other towns on their journey, only the small villages, widely scattered in the hopes that the 'silver flyers' would pass them by. The mules were struggling up a steep hill and Rodney and John were walking to save the animals the weight. Rodney had been sniffing for a while and John said, "You're not getting another cold are you?"

"No! Can't you smell that?"

They reached the crest of the hill and looked down over what seemed like a city compared to the tiny villages they'd passed through. The buildings were obscured by a pall of dark smoke.

"That's what I could smell!" said Rodney with happy recognition. "Good old-fashioned hydrocarbons. Air pollution!"


	11. Erransport

Rodney watched as John set down a large proportion of their precious coins on the counter of the shipping agent's office. The agent laboriously wrote the details of the transaction in his ledger, his quill pen scratching audibly and needing regular topping-up from the inkwell. He then spent ten minutes copying out the details again onto flimsy sheets of pink paper that would serve as their tickets. Rodney was nearly hopping with impatience by the time they stepped back outside onto the quay.

"Feels like we're making progress, doesn't it?" said John, looking out over the harbour and trying to pick out the tall sailing ship that would take them south.

"At last!" said Rodney. "Just outside the east harbour wall, the clerk said, so that one!" He pointed to a large three-masted ship. "How do we get to it? Swim?"

"Pay one of the little boats to row us out, I guess," John said looking at the multitude of small craft bobbing to and fro in the harbour. "If we're leaving on the morning tide that gives us the evening to explore!"

"I'm not sure I want to," said Rodney. "This place is too weird!" The town was a strange, higgledy-piggledy mixture of styles and building techniques, anything from Halls similar to Geran's to squalid Victorian-style terraces. A medieval market place adjoined a factory with towering chimneys and the wagon train had driven through streets where open drains ran in filthy torrents, yet at the wagon depot there were bathrooms with modern plumbing. On the quay, most of the heavy work was being done by men or mules and yet there was a strangely cobbled-together steam crane on the quay, loading and unloading cargo. 

"Okay, maybe we should just stay quiet, get something to eat, find a place to sleep," John agreed.

There was a tiny kiosk on the quay serving battered fish wrapped in actual printed newspaper. They crunched through the hot fish, wiped their greasy fingers on the newspaper wrappings and then spread them out to see what information they could glean. 

"I can't believe this place!" marvelled Rodney. "A couple of weeks ago we're living in the Iron Age, and yet here they've got steam power and printing presses!"

"Hmm..." John was scrutinising his newspaper. "They also have churches." He pointed to an advertisement for the times of services at the Church of the New Life. "I can't help wondering who exactly they're worshipping."

Rodney frowned. "We should steer clear!"

"Well, I was thinking we should check it out, join the congregation, you know."

"Why look for trouble?" said Rodney, urgently.

"We're not looking for trouble, we're looking for intel!"

"Intel. Right. I would say 'On your head be it' but any consequences will fall squarely on both our heads. Alright!" he threw up his hands in defeat, "We'll take a look. But first, let's go here." He pointed at an advert for 'Cheap, clean accommodation'.

The accommodation turned out to be neither as cheap nor as clean as advertised, but having reserved a room for that night, Rodney was reconciled to the dirty sheets by the discovery of a bakery next door.

"I don't see why we couldn't just leave our stuff in the room!" he said, licking custard off his fingers and shrugging his shoulders under the weight of his pack.

"Because," said John, flicking a blob of cream off his shirt, "it wasn't secure and we don't want our gear stolen!"

When they had left Sir Geran's Hall they had each been given a pack in which to store their spare clothes, as well as a useful knife in a leather scabbard. They were currently both back to wearing their BDUs, which got the most use because they could be washed and dried more easily than the thick woollen garments.

John, having finished his cream cake, took out the folded piece of greasy newspaper from his pocket and checked the address of the church. He asked a passer-by for directions and they made their way further away from the quay and into a more well-to-do quarter of the town. The church turned out to be a simple building, rather like a community hall. People were entering in a steady stream and John and Rodney joined the flow and went in with them.

An hour later they were among the first to leave. Rodney, looking faintly green, walked a little way along the street and then leant against some railings. John wandered along thoughtfully and stood next to him.

"Wraith-worshippers!" said Rodney, in a strangled whisper. "Praying to the white-haired angels! Makes me sick!"

"Well, technically they weren't really worshipping the Wraith, Rodney. They'd obviously never met one."

"No, the whole 'enfolding us in their arms with loving kindness bit' kind of gave that away! They missed the bit about 'sucking us dry with their feeding hands'!"

"That's why I wouldn't say they worship the Wraith," argued John. "Yeah, sure, the walls were covered in paintings of Wraith, although they're wrong about their hair always being white, but I'd say these were just ordinary folk looking for some hope."

"It confirms some of our suspicions, anyway," Rodney said tiredly. "Let's head back now."

"No, I could use a beer, let's find a cosy tavern! One with a real open fire!"

As John and Rodney walked away, somebody moved out of the shadows of a nearby alley and then began to discreetly follow them.

oOo

Gorrat had told John about a tavern where the ale was particularly good, so they had spent part of the evening there, sipping the richly bitter, amber-coloured brew. Walking back to their hostel through the dark streets, Rodney was surprised again by the strange town to find some streets lit by the soft yellow-green glow of gas lamps. It had begun to rain and the light reflected off the damp cobbles, obscured by the swirling fog of sea mist and coal smoke. Rodney felt as if he had been transported to Victorian London and as the fog thickened further, he thought, with a shudder, of Jack the Ripper. His sinister thoughts were interrupted by a piercing scream.

They froze. The scream came again. 

"This way!" John ran to the next gaslight, his knife drawn, and dived down an alley to the right. Rodney followed, but by the time he'd reached the corner, John had already disappeared into the fog, his pelting footsteps echoing off the walls of the alley. Rodney paused, his breath loud in his ears, then set off after John. A dark shape abruptly loomed up in front of him and he skidded to a stop.

"Get back, Rodney, it's a trap!" John, his knife held out in front, flung out his other arm to keep Rodney behind him and began backing down the alley. Rodney couldn't see what was ahead of John.

"How many?" he asked, drawing his own knife with a shaking hand.

"Three? Four? I can't tell!"

Rodney heard a scraping sound of hobnailed boots on the cobbles behind him. He whipped round, but the knife was immediately knocked from his hand and he was set upon and forced to the ground, his arms painfully twisted up his back, his face ground into the greasy wet cobblestones. Through one eye he saw shapes shifting in the fog, a cry and a curse, a scuffle and struggle and then a resounding crack and one of the shapes fell to the ground. John dropped like a stone to land next to Rodney, his eyes closed and a trickle of blood running down his temple and dripping onto the wet ground.


	12. Kidnapped

Rodney felt the prickle of rough rope binding his wrists behind him and then a harsh, low voice next to his ear: "You keep quiet or I'll knock you over the head, same as your friend here." Rodney saw a booted foot carelessly poke John's inert body.

Another voice came out of the mist. "What did you have to bash him on the head for? We'll have to carry him now!"

"Because I've come across his type before - you put him down fast or he causes a lot more damage than he's worth! Oi, you two, make yourselves useful and take this one!" Rodney saw hands grab John's legs and arms and begin to carry him away. He then felt a cloth being tied round his eyes before he was hauled to his feet.

"I still say we're playing with fire!" The second voice spoke again. "We're paid well for getting rid of them as knows more than they should! Why not just bash 'em both on the head proper, chuck 'em in the harbour and have done with it?"

"I've told you why not! Because why should we settle for one payment when we can get two? I'm not getting rid of merchandise that I can sell on!"

Rodney was then hauled forward by a rough grasp on one arm and hustled along, stumbling, trying in vain to keep track of the twists and turns of his route.

oOo

A bare hour after John and Rodney had been happily drinking beer in the tavern, equipped and ready to embark on their sea voyage, Rodney found himself on the floor of a cold, damp, musty-smelling cellar, his shaking hands reaching out to try to find his friend in the complete blackness.

Rodney's hand found an arm and followed it to check the pulse in John's neck. To his relief it beat strongly and he felt John begin to breathe more deeply and then, with a groan, he pushed himself up.

"Rodney?"

"Here." Rodney felt something touch his arm and then John shuffled next to him so that they sat, leaning against the rough stone wall, shoulder to shoulder.

"Well, this is nice," said John.

Rodney couldn't bring himself to respond.

"Cold, though."

Rodney felt John's bare toes wriggle against his own.

"And it seems like they've taken pretty much everything. Generous of them to leave us pants and t-shirts, I guess."

"Hm, yeah, generous!" Rodney agreed in a small voice.

Rodney felt John wriggle around and heard a small "Huh!" of satisfaction.

"One thing they didn't get."

"What?"

"Ancient compass! Hid it in the hem of my pants a while back!"

"Not much use down here," Rodney said. His thoughts ran back over their day. "They must have heard us. Outside the Wraith church. One of them said, when you were unconscious, they're paid to get rid of people who know more than they should. Why do people always say important things when you're unconscious?"

"Because they know you'll take notes for me. Get rid of? Not that I'm complaining or anything, but I don't feel got rid of."

"Oh, they're astute businessmen, these thugs! Not keen on wasting resources! They're selling us." Rodney's lips clamped shut after these words and he shuffled even closer to John. Their chances of ever getting home had just plummeted.

They sat silent in the dark for a long time. Then the bolt on the door rattled and a bright light shone in. Rodney squinted against the glare and his nose twitched at the bitter, sulphurous smell of burning kerosene. He could see nothing beyond the light's glare.

"Just these two?" said a voice.

"How many d'you need?"

"Well, two, but I would've liked a choice!"

"This ain't no fancy store! If you don't want 'em there's plenty that will!"

"They'll do, I suppose."

John had moved away from the wall and got his feet under him when the men had entered. Rodney felt him tense, ready to fight.

"I guess we don't get a say here?" he asked.

There came the familiar click of a pistol. "That answer your question?"

John slumped back against the wall.

The buyer spoke again. "I need a topman and a cook's mate."

"That's what you needed last time you was in port. What you doing with 'em?"

"Topmen fall, don't they? And the cook's boy... Well, I don't _think_ he ended up in a stew!"

The two men left, laughing, the door closing over the light and the bolt rattling with finality.

"We are so screwed," said Rodney.

oOo

Their hands had been tied behind them again, rough sacks put over their heads and they had been taken by cart through the dark streets until Rodney could tell by the unpleasant smell of mixed salt, coal and fish that they had arrived at the quay. Then they were marched over the hollow sound and shifting motion of a gangplank onto wooden decking and their hands untied so that they could negotiate, by touch, several steep companionways, taking them down into the depths of a ship. The sacks were removed and they were pushed into another lightless prison.

"I prefer this one!" came John's determinedly cocky voice in the darkness. "It's much warmer!"

"Smelly and cramped," said Rodney, trying to straighten up and hitting his head on a beam. "And I can feel it moving."

"We're docked, Rodney. You can't get seasick when we're tied up to the quay."

"I think you'll find I can."

Rodney slumped heavily to the floor and heard John slide down the wall to sit next to him.

"What's a topman?" Rodney asked. "Not that I really want to know."

"Someone who climbs up the rigging to the top and out along the yards to set the sails."

"Oh." There was a minute's silence. "That makes me the cook's mate then." Another silence, in which Rodney's thoughts whirled in confusion and he wondered desperately how his life had come to this and how he would ever get back to Atlantis. "Can you do that? Climb up the rigging?"

"I think so, yeah," replied John. "Might be fun."

Rodney snorted in disbelief and sank back into his gloomy thoughts.

Again they sat side by side in the dark, waiting, Rodney's head gradually slumping onto John's shoulder. He was woken suddenly by the sound of pounding feet and shouted commands. The ship gave a lurch and the gentle up and down motion increased to a rolling wallow.

"What's happening?" said Rodney, feeling his stomach imitating the movement of the ship.

"We're leaving," John replied. "We'll be towed out beyond the harbour walls and then they'll set sail."

"Set sail..." groaned Rodney. "Sheppard, what are we going to do? I can't do this! I can't be on this ship about to embark on a career as an assistant cook!"

"Rodney?"

"Yes!"

"What were we going to do today?"

"Sail south to get to the Stargate!"

"Here, take this!"

Rodney felt a small, round object thrust into his hand.

"Turn it on," said John.

"I can't, it doesn't like me!"

"You just need to coax it a bit, go on!"

Rodney thought 'On!' as hard as he could and then added a 'Please!' for good measure. A light appeared in the darkness. Four narrow beams of white light at right angles to each other. And then a blue streak of light, which Rodney knew pointed to the location of the Stargate.

"So, here we are, on a ship, not quite in the way we planned, I admit! But, if we're lucky, we'll be heading south."

"Oh. Well, I suppose things could be worse," Rodney said grudgingly.

oOo

They felt the moment when the ship left the shelter of the harbour for the open sea. The motion changed from a choppy wallow to a slow, broad roll and then, when the sails were set the deck heeled over slightly and the movement settled to a rhythmic rise and fall as the ship ran nearly directly before the wind.

With each change of motion Rodney felt his stomach lurch; his breathing grew fast and shallow and he clamped a hand over his mouth.

"Breath slowly, Rodney," came John's voice out if the darkness. "Just concentrate on breathing!"

Rodney didn't know how long he could manage without anything to distract him from his increasing nausea and it was a relief when he heard the bolt being drawn and dim light filtered in.

He stumbled on the steep flights of the companionways as they were hustled and prodded up from the odorous depths of the lower decks. The light as they emerged was blinding and Rodney's eyes snapped shut. His heart beat wildly and he felt sick, not just from the plunging motion of the deck beneath him but from bleak anticipation of what would happen next. He forced his eyes open again and, squinting against the glare, made himself take in his surroundings.

Above him, billowing white sails, around him the disciplined bustle of sailors at work, and beyond, the dark, inky blue of the deep sea. Rodney turned slowly in a circle. Bright blue sky met white-capped ocean all around; they were out of sight of land.


	13. The Seadragon

John, standing precariously on the footropes, leant over the yard arm to view the play of the choppy waves far below. The ship was heeled over to port so that directly below John was the sea and the busy life of the deck seemed far away. A long way to fall, but John didn't really think about that. This was his favourite place on the ship, way high up on the main topgallant yard. The wind blew in his face and roared in his ears and the sun warmed his tanned skin; up here he almost felt like he was flying.

That first day, the Bosun ( _sadistic bastard_ , thought John) had sent him right up here, up to the top of the mainmast, no doubt thinking John would come down a quivering wreck, if he made it at all. John had never climbed a ship's rigging before, but had quickly got into an easy hand over hand rhythm, climbing all the way up and then back down to drop onto the deck with an unfortunate smirk. The Bosun saw red and then sent John up once more in competition with Tane, one of the old hands, who swarmed up and down the rigging like a monkey. He had beaten John, but not by much and they had glanced across the deck at each other, breathing hard, and nodded in mutual respect. The Bosun, seething, but powerless to punish where no wrongdoing had occurred, had set Tane to teach John his new job; John, however, knew he'd had his card marked and would need to be watchful.

Far below John the gun crews were at their practice and every so often the long cannons would be run out and there would be a satisfying explosion of noise and black smoke as the guns along one side of the ship all fired at once. John thought the port gun crews were a little faster than the starboard today. Then there was the whining pulse of Captain Blake's pride and joy, which, as far as John could tell, was a little like a scaled-up version of Ronon's blaster. It sat on the quarterdeck, its long, sleek barrel and touch-screen control panel wildly anachronistic.

Gunnery practice over, John's twelve-hour watch was finished and he climbed back down eagerly anticipating his evening meal, which if not appetising, would at least be filling. And he would get to see Rodney.

John hadn't seen much of Rodney since they'd been brought blinking onto the maindeck of the _Seadragon_ nearly two weeks ago. He was kept busy in the rigging and around the deck, whereas Rodney was always in the galley, except for mealtimes where he served the greasy stews and hard biscuits that were the staples of the seamen's diet. A snatched word here and there was all they'd been able to manage.

For the first week Rodney had looked sick and shaky and although he seemed to have gained his sea legs since, John was not reassured. Rodney always seemed to have burns on his hands and arms and today there was a dirty bandage around his left forearm.

John, in the queue for a plate of stew, looked pointedly at the bandage, but Rodney's eyes merely widened, his mouth drooped even further than usual and he shot a terrified glance over his shoulder where the glassy-eyed cook stood, leaning on the bulkhead, cleaver in one hand, pewter tankard in the other. The tankard contained something pretty potent, judging by the cook's satisfied grimace as he took a swig.

John shot Rodney a grim look, but Rodney minutely shook his head; John nodded slightly in return but he wouldn't wait forever before doing something. 

That night John decided he needed to talk to Rodney properly. He hadn't risked it up to now because the hammocks were packed in closely and he knew it would be noticed if he slipped out. John carefully rolled to the floor, crawled beneath the sleeping men and crept silently out. The swift running of the water along the side of the ship helped to disguise his movements, but John did his best to be stealthy, nevertheless; to be caught would mean severe punishment.

He had to go up one deck and forward past more sleeping sailors. He reached the galley and halted at the sound of a cavernous snort, then peered round the doorframe. The small, cluttered space was dimly lit by the glow from the stove and John could see a hammock slung in the space above a workbench, from which came the stertorous snoring. On the deck, in front of the stove, lay Rodney, asleep, a single blanket his only concession to comfort.

John crept in and touched Rodney very lightly on his shoulder. Rodney jerked and flailed as if afraid but, seeing John bending over him, relaxed.

"Sheppard!" he said softly.

John put his finger to his lips and gestured at the sleeping cook.

Rodney waved a dismissive hand. "He won't wake! He's drunk! He's very rarely not drunk..."

John squatted next to Rodney, appreciating the warmth from the stove.

"You okay?"

"I'm surviving," said Rodney, with a determined lift of his chin. "Just."

"What happened?" John pointed at Rodney's arm.

Rodney looked embarrassed. "I do most of the work round here. He lies around drinking. But sometimes he wakes up. And he likes his cleaver."

"He cut you with the meat cleaver?" John was horrified.

"He throws it sometimes. I try to dodge." Rodney laughed pathetically. "It's a little game we play!"

John shook his head, angrily. "We need to get you out of this!"

"How? Where? Face it, Sheppard, we're stuck! Do we even know where we're going?"

"Not south, anyway, or at least not yet." John took out the Ancient compass and the lines of light sprung out, showing the ship was traveling west. "I think we're taking cargo to some of the small islands, but it sounds like it's a circular route and we call at ports on the south continent. Gaiaos, it's called."

"Well, maybe we'll get there eventually, then." Rodney shifted position and winced.

"How bad is that? Is it infected?" John asked worriedly.

"I don't know. I tried to clean it in saltwater. I probably need antibiotics."

"Have they been invented here?"

"Who knows? I have to serve at the Captain's table." Rodney paused thoughtfully. "He doesn't eat much better than the sailors, except he wants big stodgy sponge puddings every day, and, you know baking is actually just like basic chemistry, so I'm pretty good at it! Who knew? Anyway," Rodney paused again with a 'where was I?' expression on his face and John smiled, pleased to see his friend's spirits weren't completely worn down. "Oh, yes, the ship's surgeon sometimes dines with the Captain and, from what I hear, he's not a complete primitive. Not that anything good will be available to the cook's mate," he finished gloomily.

There came the sound of a steady tread along the planks above them and they both froze.

"Just the night watch," whispered John. "But I'd better get back."

oOo

The voyage continued and the ship made a stop at a small island. John, along with the other sailors helped unload coal in heavy sacks and load goods such as bales of cloth and barrels of preserved fruits. John didn't enjoy the work because it meant he was at the mercy of the Bosun with his heavy length of rope, knotted at one end, that he used to strike any sailor who incurred his wrath. Normally, hearing the man's shouted orders, John would be one of the first into the rigging, whipping himself quickly out of range with a cheeky smirk. Working with the cargo didn't allow for this tactic and John endured several heavy blows leaving his back sore and bruised. Then the Bosun spotted one of his other favourite targets; Neshan, a rather slow, clumsy boy of about sixteen. John, helping to roll a barrel up the gangplank, saw the rope being raised as Neshan passed the Bosun and gave the barrel an extra shove so that it wobbled into the man's legs causing him to flail and grab hold of a shroud to avoid falling between the ship and the quay. Having regained his balance he laid into John with the rope's end until the cool voice of Captain Blake halted him. 

"Enough, Mr Ellian. "We haven't got men to spare!"

John was allowed to continue with his work and, though his back and shoulders burned and ached, he felt his pains were worth the looks of approval he was sent from the other men; his defence of the boy had been noted and he felt pleased that he was truly part of the team.


	14. Battle at Sea

A sail was spotted on the horizon and the Captain's concern spread throughout the ship. The whispers amongst the crew told John that this stretch of ocean was the reason the Seadragon carried guns; the area was rife with pirates.

It was strange to John that a dot on the horizon could provoke such fear, especially as the dot barely increased to the size of a recognizable ship, to the naked eye, over the next hour or so. The Captain, having climbed partway up the mizzenmast to observe the distant sail himself through his telescope, had the air of a man about to face down a rapidly-approaching wraith battle cruiser.

As time progressed, however, John began to understand the tension running throughout the crew. He and the other seamen were sent aloft to crowd on as much canvas as they could and the Seadragon flew before the wind, there being no land nearby to worry about. But still the other vessel grew larger.

"That'll be the _Silver Flyer_ ," said Tane, with grim resignation. He squinted with his hand shading his eyes, from their position on the main topgallant yard. "We'll not outrun that devil."

"Can we outfight them?" asked John, trying to make out the details of the enemy ship.

"The stern blaster should make them think twice," replied Tane. "A taste of that and then a change of course overnight; that should get us away clean." John thought the older sailor sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as John.

The two ships flew on, the water creaming at bow and stern as they sliced through the waves. It was another hour before the Silver Flyer approached the range of the stern blaster and it would be longer still before the cannons would have any hope of hitting the enemy ship.

John, still poised for action high up in the mainmast and glad he'd been given a tatty old jersey against the constant wind, watched as there was a flurry of activity on the quarterdeck. The Gunner hovered over the blaster, tapping at the touchscreen and, at a word from the Captain, fired. With a piercing whine a red jet of energy shot out across the water and the Silver Flyer's bowsprit disappeared, leaving ropes and charred sails flapping in the wind. The damage wasn't serious as the ship had only just been in range and the enemy crew would soon rig a replacement. Nevertheless, a cheer went up from the crew of the Seadragon.

Then a sharp electrical crack rang out and sparks shot from the side of the blaster. John saw the Gunner spring back, holding one hand in pain. The control panel was dark and the Gunner could be seen waving his hands and talking fast to the concerned officers.

Tane shook his head, his jaw set. "You any good hand-to-hand?"

"It'll come to that?"

"They'll catch us, they'll shoot away our rigging, then they'll board us," said Tane.

"I'm not going to let that happen," said John. He took off his jersey and slung it over the backstay that ran all the way down to the deck.

"What are you doing? You can't leave your post!" Tane put out a hand to stop John, but John just smiled, hooked a leg over the rope and pushed off to hurtle precipitously down to the deck.

Of course he was spotted straight away and with a roar of "Sheppard!" the Bosun was there as soon as his feet touched the ground. John dodged the swipe of the knotted rope, jinked and twisted past the man and ran for the quarterdeck, feeling like he should have a ball in his hands and a team around him. Feet pounded the deck behind him and he was brought down in a crashing tackle.

Knowing he was about to be dragged away, John yelled as loud as he could. "McKay can fix it! Captain! The cook's mate can fix the blaster!" John then felt the Bosun's arm round his neck and he was hauled to his feet, his words choked off.

"Release that man, Bosun," came the Captain's calm but authoritative voice.

"He's a troublemaker, Cap'n," called the Bosun. "Needs locking up!"

John, struggling, his vision blurring, heard the steel in the Captain's words.

"I said release him!"

Air rushed back into John's lungs and he looked up at the Captain and gasped, "Please, sir, let me get my friend, the cook's mate. He can fix it!"

The Captain shrugged, nodded. "Get him," he said, shortly, with the air of a man who had nothing to lose.

John, about to disappear down the nearest hatch, felt a large hand grab his arm and the Bosun's hot breath close to his ear. "If he can't fix it, I'll flog you both!" Then he let go and John clattered down the ladder, hoping Rodney really could get the gun working.

oOo

Rodney, blinking in the light on the quarterdeck, did not present an inspiring site. He was pale, his eyes were shadowed and his left arm was swollen down to his wrist. The arm was clearly infected and he shivered in the sharp wind.

The Captain and officers' expressions ranged from disappointment to fury. John pushed Rodney toward the lifeless weapon. Rodney stared at it for a few long seconds and then seemed to come to life. He felt along its sides and, finding an access panel, knelt down, snapping his fingers imperiously for "Something to open this! Screwdriver! Knife!"

John would have enjoyed the next half hour were it not for the inexorably lessening distance between the two ships, the Gunner's constant assessments of how soon they'd be in range of enemy fire and the increasingly anxious twitching of the officers. The Captain alone remained almost motionless and silent, only his eyes flicking between the Silver Flyer, the sails of the Seadragon and Rodney. Rodney's constant litany of complaint was achingly familiar and John could almost imagine he had his full team around him, impatiently waiting for Rodney to pull off his latest technological last-minute rescue.

Rodney's voice drifted out metallically from where he was stuck, head and shoulders inside the weapon: "What do I have to work with here?" and,"cobbled together heap of..." followed by, "even with my expertise!" Then, at last, a note of triumph crept into the mutterings and with a tear of fabric and another curse, he emerged. "That should hold it for now, although whoever's been in charge of maintaining this thing has really not been doing their job!" His strident voice faltered as he remembered where he was and looked round at the circle of disapproving stares.

"Um... it'll work now."

"Gunner! Fire when ready!"

The Gunner leapt into position, tapped at the once more glowing screen and the red blast lanced out over the water to bite squarely into the hull of the enemy ship. The crew gave a resounding cheer and the Captain, smiling grimly, said, "Take out her masts, Gunner.

The next few blasts saw the foremast explode into splinters and the mainmast topple into the sea so that the enemy crew were all occupied hacking at the rigging to release themselves from the tangled mess.

The Captain, observing closely through his telescope, said coolly, "Another shot into the hull, Gunner and then we'll come alongside and board!" His eyes fell on Rodney, whose adrenaline rush had worn off and was shivering and holding his arm. "Take that man below, to the surgeon," he said to John.

oOo

John heard the explosion of the port side guns as he climbed back up to the maindeck and he emerged to a scene of ordered chaos. Men with grappling irons and hooks lined the port side of the ship and John could see they had drawn alongside the Silver Flyer. There was little left of its masts and there were several gaping holes in the hull.

The guns fired again and John saw the projectiles explode into smaller shot and many of the enemy crew fall. Cannister, loaded with grapeshot; a brutally effective anti-personnel technique. He spotted Tane, armed with an ancient pistol and a long knife. "Grab a weapon, Sheppard," he said, "We're going to board!"

John approached the armourer who was giving out a motley assortment of weapons and found a heavy duelling pistol and a long pike thrust into his arms. He snatched a dagger as well, and stuck it in his belt. John looked dubiously at the pistol; it would probably explode if he tried to fire it, but might be of some use as a club. He stuck it in the other side of his belt and, two hands gripping the haft of the pike, watched as the grappling irons swung and bit into the Silver Flyer's structure. 

John looked at the men around him, some with eyes wide with fear, hands trembling on their weapons, others with tense, intent expressions, weapons held loosely but efficiently. However much John might feel that this was not his world, not his fight, for now he was part of it, like it or not, and he would have to kill or be killed just like any of the men around him.

The two hulls were pulled slowly together and there came a thud and a grinding sound as they met and were made fast by many ropes. The order to board came and the crew surged forward. John went with them and when his turn came, climbed up onto the railing, bent his legs and with a surge of power, jumped over to the enemy ship.


	15. Canister and a Conference

Leaping down onto the deck of the Silver Flyer, John lost his footing straight away on the slick, bloody surface, and would have lost his life were it not for his instinctive defence in bringing up the pike to block a slashing blow from a cutlass. He forced away the cutlass, managed to get his feet under him, and knocked his opponent senseless with a heavy blow from his pistol. John stuck the pistol back into his belt, whipped the pike back into a defensive position and then realised he was temporarily safe; the Seadragons had overwhelmed the enemy on this side of the ship and were slowly pushing them back. The fighting was close and frantic and the mass of cordage and spars, as well as the spilt blood, made the footing treacherous. John, spotting Tane hard-pressed against a huge man holding a knife and cutlass, dived back into the fray and delivering a strategic thrust under Tane's arm, took out the pirate and received a grateful nod from Tane. Having created a gap in the line by felling the huge man, they were both set upon by fresh opponents and for a while John was totally occupied, thrusting, parrying, dodging and feinting until his breath began to come in gasps. John and Tane pressed forward until they came up against the remnants of the mainmast and were briefly sheltered from the battle. 

"You alright?" panted John.

Tane looked down at the blood on his thigh and side and nodded. "Just scratches. You?"

John hadn't registered any injuries during the frenzied fighting, but now he became aware of a burn across his chest and the trickle of blood into his right eyebrow. He shrugged. "I'm good." His eye was then caught by movement on the quarterdeck and it was as if time froze. He saw in one horrified moment that seemed to last forever the black muzzle of a cannon pointed out over the deck and a sailor sliding a cylindrical object into the barrel. A canister! The spray of grapeshot would decimate friend and enemy alike!

Acting entirely on instinct and adrenaline, John hurtled toward the quarterdeck, rammed the point of his pike hard into the planking and leapt into the air, pole-vaulting over the railing and landing hard with his stomach against the gaping maw of the cannon. In a desperate arc, he brought the pike swinging round to smash into the side of a pirate's head, felling him instantly, the smouldering slow-match dropping from the man's limp fingers. 

The other men, recovering from their surprise, came to life and John danced and swerved to avoid the blows of their weapons, trying to keep the cannon between him and his opponents and to knock over and stamp out the bucket of slow-matches that would mean the death of most of his crew.

He frantically swung the pike toward one man and threw the pistol to smack into the temple of another climbing over the cannon to get to him, but was nearly pulled off his feet when the pike was ripped from the grip of his sweat-slicked hand. He drew out his knife but knew he couldn't last much longer.

Then Tane was next to him and the boy, Neshan, face bloody but grinning, and John, filled with renewed hope and energy, fought the few men remaining on the quarterdeck until the battle was finally won.

"Strike their colours, John!" Tane pointed at the flag, emblazoned with a silver wraith dart against a red ground. John willingly hacked at the rope and the flag fell in a defeated heap to lie on the bloody deck.

oOo

The cry of, "All hands! All hands, make sail!" brought men streaming up from the depths of the ship. Many sported bandages or moved stiffly and the sails were set with less efficiency than usual, but they caught the wind and the Seadragon was once more underway.

It had taken a day to clear the decks of The Silver Flyer but now, with jury-rigged masts and a skeleton crew, she was ready to limp back to Erransport where the battered ship could be sold as salvage. John watched the gap widening between the two ships and gave a cheery salute over the white-capped waves; the Bosun had been ordered to make up part of the scanty crew to help nurse the damaged ship back to port.

John and Rodney waited on the deck; they had been told the Captain wanted to see them.

"How's the arm?" John asked. 

Rodney looked down at his sling. "Well, aside from the fact that I think the surgeon should have given me the painkillers before he cleaned it instead of after, not too bad!"

John looked shrewdly at his friend. "The antibiotics are working, are they?"

Rodney's throat worked convulsively. "I don't think I would have made it without them." His hand smoothed over the fabric of his sling. "I get the impression they're pretty valuable, pretty rare. If it hadn't been for fixing that blaster... I mean who cares if the cook's mate lives or dies?" His chin jerked up angrily. "And obviously I still feel like crap and shouldn't be hanging around here waiting for His Highness! Neither should you!"

"I'm fine, McKay. Coupla' stitches, new shirt, good to go!" He'd been given a shirt of unbleached linen, his black t-shirt having been judged fit only for burial at sea.

One of the ship's boys emerged from the Captain's cabin and waggled his eyebrows cheekily at John and Rodney, ushering them in with a sarcastic bow. The boy scampered off and John and Rodney entered and stood before the large, wooden desk which took up most of the space. The desk was covered in charts and ledgers and Captain Blake was studying one of the large, leather-bound volumes.

He looked up, his hard, grey eyes coolly appraising. John looked back, painfully aware that this man held the power of life and death over his crew. The Captain flicked a finger over the ledger he'd been studying and said abruptly, "You signed on at Erransport. Why?"

John felt Rodney bristle beside him and heard the sharp intake of breath leading to a tirade which could get them both killed. He quelled Rodney with a nudge and tried to speak with at least the superficial appearance of respect.

"We had no choice. We were press-ganged. Sir."

A sceptical eyebrow was raised in response. "Indeed? So, you did not wish to go to sea?"

John didn't want to give away any more information than he had to. "We'd booked passage to Gaiaos. Sir."

Long, callused fingers curled and uncurled the edge of one of the charts. "You are from the South Continent." It was a statement more than a question. "Your language marks you as such."

This was difficult to respond to. John was never sure what the English he was hearing had started out as. Similarly, he didn't know what language others heard when he spoke.

"Are you Lighters?" The question was sharp, as if designed to provoke a surprised response. John briefly glanced at Rodney, who looked back, equally puzzled.

"You must answer!" the Captain insisted. "As one who holds authority over you, the law binds you to respond truthfully!"

"No!" blurted Rodney. "No, we're not Lighters." John nudged him again. "Sir," he added grudgingly.

"We shall see, then!" Captain Blake rolled up one of the charts and pushed it aside. Beneath, was a shiny white, oblong object, about the size of a paperback book. "Pick it up," he said to John.

John hesitated, fearing a trap. He was beginning to suspect what a 'Lighter' might be and didn't like the implications at all.

"Pick. It. Up." The Captain spoke with quiet emphasis.

John reached forward and picked up the oblong; as soon as his fingertips touched the smooth surface he felt the spark in his mind and the device came to life. He turned it over. It was a type of LSD, a crowd of overlapping dots showing the distribution of the crew about the ship. John looked up and his eyes met the Captain's, smug satisfaction in the man's gaze.

"As I thought," he said. "Turn it off and then hand it over."

John flicked with his mind and the screen went dark. Rodney held out his hand with resignation. He took the LSD and it flickered reluctantly to life.

"Both Lighters, then," the Captain confirmed. John and Rodney waited, wondering what penalty the ATA gene carried on this strange world. The Captain's eyes flicked back and forth between them, then, in a sudden, nervous burst, he shot out, "Are you with the Resistance?"

"What if we are?" countered John immediately.

Captain Blake's eyes narrowed and he looked calculating as if he were weighing his words. He took a deep breath. "You have helped me. Both of you. But I do not have to know who or what you are to know that I do not want you aboard my ship. To harbour Lighters is a criminal offence, maybe even a capital offence now." He looked down at his hands and did not raise his eyes when he continued. "I am not a supporter of the current regime, however, so I will do three things for you. I will pay you for your work and I will set you ashore when we reach port."

John and Rodney waited as the Captain considered his words once more. He looked at them earnestly. "And I will give you two pieces of advice: tell no-one that you are Lighters and do not allow yourselves to be caught by a patrol!"


	16. Tatooine

"I'm gonna catch you, you little monkey!" called John with mock fury. He climbed as fast as he could, bare feet reaching for the ratlines, hands gripping tight to the shrouds. He looked up and saw a small pair of legs disappearing over the maintop and renewed his efforts, snarling and growling and hearing the child shriek with pretend fear. John, reaching the top of the sail, was in time to see the boy sliding headfirst down the stay which led to the foremast, waving and sticking out his tongue. He shook his fist and gave a mad grimace in return, but decided it was too hot for any more larking about.

John stretched out an arm and let the breeze blow through his shirt and cut-off BDU pants. The weather had changed as they sailed further south and the sun hung in a uniformly flat blue sky, bleaching the decking planks and sails and burning the skins of the sailors. The warm winds were fitful and sails were run in and out with exhausting frequency to try to catch the fickle breeze.

The atmosphere on the ship had changed too. The absence of the Bosun had a lot to do with that and John hoped the Captain had noticed that the easy discipline and high morale made for a smoothly-running ship.

John swung round to look down over the quarterdeck. Rodney sat under an awning fiddling with the blaster gun, trying to increase its power and range. He had not been made to resume his duties as cook's mate and had become something of a ship's pet since he had performed his feat of technical wizardry, which was as good as magic to most of the crew. They had rigged the awning so that he could sit in the shade and although the sailors weren't really allowed on the quarterdeck at all, whenever Rodney decided he was hungry or thirsty there always seemed to be a snack or drink within his reach.

A cry came from above John's head: "Land ho!" John felt a part of him that had been resting twitch and come to life. Land in sight. One step closer to the Stargate. One step closer to going home.

oOo

"It's like the Nile Delta," said Rodney, looking out over the miles upon miles of reeds and broad waterways stretching away into the heat-hazy distance.

"I was thinking more Tatooine." John squinted in the other direction at the crowded, dusty port, sandy-coloured buildings merging into the bleached earth. 

The sails furled, the Seadragon eased into the port towed by a local tug, its oars dipping and splashing in the muddy brown water. The ship bumped up against the fenders on the harbour and sailors leapt ashore to make it fast. John and Rodney didn't wait for the gangplank to lower or for the work of unloading cargo to begin. They had already said their goodbyes and they slipped quietly over the side, onto the harbour and disappeared into the crowded streets.

Walking on dry land was disorienting after the constant rolling motion of the ship's deck. The bustle, noise and colours of the port were confusing too and John knew they had to orient themselves fast, learn to blend in or they'd be targets for unwelcome attention. His eyes flicked around as he walked, Rodney behind him, trying to take in as much as possible while appearing uninterested. The variety was bewildering; variety of people, vehicles, stores, even animals. Although there was a predominantly antique Middle-eastern flavour to the place, there were storefronts that wouldn't have looked out of place in a modern Earth-city, styles of dress that ranged from Ancient Egyptian chic to Parisian _haute couture_ and even small hovering vehicles, which John noticed Rodney staring at, desperate to take them apart and see how they worked. More than ever John felt like he'd walked into a Star Wars movie.

Rodney nudged him. "Look at that!"

John followed the direction of Rodney's gaze. The crumbling plaster of a shop wall was being held together by a poster proclaiming: "The root of your misfortune - Lighters!" The picture showed a miserable peasant harvesting a shrivelled crop and an evil face lurking beneath the soil. John, forcing himself not to react, moved Rodney on up the narrow street.

"Heads down and stick to the plan, McKay! We have to blend in!"

They'd agreed before they landed that first shopping and then transport would be their priorities. They needed some local clothing in order not to stand out, although, looking around him, John revised that opinion; clothing or (and John raised his eyebrows and gulped at a party of young women) lack thereof, seemed to come under the heading of 'anything goes'. They did at least need footwear, however, as they hadn't had any since their boots had been stolen.

They turned into a broader street bordered by glass-fronted shops that looked like modern Earth department stores.

"Let's try this one!" said Rodney. "Way to shop!"

"No!" John jerked Rodney back and pulled him along the street, turning down a narrow alley. 

"What? Why?" spluttered Rodney.

"Just watch! And try to look like you're not watching!"

Rodney leant against the wall, his casual pose belied by his twitching fingers and tight jaw. He watched as a woman and children approached the store. The woman ushered her two small children ahead of her and as they passed the threshold each jumped up to touch what looked like a white stone set into the frame. The woman then held her baby's hand out to touch the stone with her own and then followed her children. Rodney looked at John, his eyes wide.

"Do you think...?"

John nodded, grimly. "I think these people have been brainwashed. I think they have to prove wherever they go that they're not Lighters. Even the kids!"

"But they can't have enough Ancient devices for every store! That's ridiculous!"

"They don't all have to be real, McKay! Would you risk it?"

Rodney shook his head. "Then what do we do?"

"Street stalls. We'll get what we need then get out of here!"

They moved away from the affluent area, away from the broad thoroughfares and glass-fronted stores to an ancient quarter of narrow walkways overhung by tattered awnings and balconies, lined with a myriad of small shops and stalls selling anything from spices to spare parts.

John spotted a likely stall; a chaotic jumble of clothing, footwear and household goods with no sign of any security device. He felt for the money pouch on a chord round his neck and prepared to bargain. Haggling with the stallholder for two pairs of soft brown leather sandals, he noticed Rodney perusing the stall, picking up this and that.

John was sitting on the ground pulling on his sandals when there was a disturbance further along the alley. The distinctive rhythmic sound of boots marching in time and the scattering of shoppers to move out of the way made John's instincts scream; this surely, was the local law enforcement.

"Rodney." He held out the other pair of sandals. "Put these on and keep out of the road!"

Rodney, leaning up against the wall with one hand, reached down to put on a sandal with the other.

The marching grew louder and John could see the patrol coming, marching two abreast down the alley, forcing people to flatten themselves against the shopfronts, kicking goods piled up for sale out of their way. John stiffened; the face-covering helmets made the soldiers look like wraith drones. His eyes narrowed. No, these were ordinary men; but dangerous enough for all that.

Rodney, one sandal on, was hopping around trying to get his foot into the other one.

The patrol came level and John moved as close to the wall as he could, trying to match the posture and expressions of the locals. He noticed that the lead soldier carried some kind of Ancient tablet tucked into his belt, presumably for spot checks.

Rodney, his foot in the sandal, was trying to do up the buckle balanced on one leg. He hopped up and down, flicked the metal prong over into the hole in the leather strap with a triumphant "Ha!" and then lost his balance completely, arms flailing and fell; fell directly into the path of the patrol. John watched with a horrified sense of impending disaster as Rodney's reaching hand, grasping for balance, inevitably made contact with the patrol leader's belt and his fingers curled around the Ancient tablet stowed there. Rodney finally came to rest on his back on the dusty ground at the feet of the patrol leader. The device flared to life.

Rodney stared up at the faceless helmet. "Oh dear!"


	17. Pursuit

John was reaching for Rodney before he even hit the ground. He grabbed hold of Rodney's belt and hauled him to his feet, seeing the patrol leader's weapon swinging up toward him. Pushing Rodney ahead of him into the dark recesses of the shop, John ducked and jinked to one side, knowing he had successfully avoided the first shot as a shelf of tinned food exploded above his head.

Barrelling through the shop and storeroom behind, John pushed any and all shelving and loose goods over in his wake. Another shot thundered out hitting a stack of glass jars and John felt his side peppered with fragments. Then suddenly he was out in the bright light and saw Rodney's legs above him, shinning up a drainpipe for all he was worth. John slammed the metal door shut and heaved a rainwater barrel in front of it. The door immediately clanged with a heavy impact and the barrel shifted.

John sprang up the drainpipe, the challenge nothing at all after the ship's rigging. He pulled himself over on to the roof to see Rodney haring away over the rooftops, slipping and sliding on the loose, uneven tiles. John followed, caught him up, saw the gap in the roofs, yelled, "Keep going!" and launched himself, arms flailing, into the air. People in the alley below looked up and called out. He crashed onto the tiles and then Rodney crashed beside him, legs hanging over the edge, dangling out over the alley. John hauled on Rodney's arm, pulling him up and then they were off again.

The smash of tiles under booted feet came from behind them. "Zig zag!" yelled John, and Rodney, no stranger to evasive manoeuvres, ran this way and that as tiles exploded around them, the shards cutting their legs. John headed for an area where flat roofs were interspersed with domes large and small and, hearing Rodney's laboured breathing, took him by the hand and dragged him left and right and this way and that in a desperate attempt to lose their pursuit.

A curtained balcony beckoned and John vaulted over the stone parapet pulling Rodney behind him, dived through the curtains and stilled them with his hands, smoothing the motion of their passing. Fingers to his lips, he glared at Rodney, who tried hard to silence his gasping.

They moved silently to the inner door. John pulled it open, peered round the corner and stepped carefully forward. They found themselves in a galleried courtyard, a fountain playing below them and potted palms creating an atmosphere of cool and calm. Their sandaled feet made little noise padding along the smooth wooden floor of the galleries and they crept down the flights of stairs, feet close to the side of each tread to avoid any creaking.

They were nearly at the bottom when a girl carrying a tray of cool drinks turned the corner at the base of the stairs and seeing them, froze in astonishment. John, taking an opportunity, gave the girl a cheeky grin and snatched up two of the glasses, thrust one at Rodney and downed the other himself. The girl, deciding she was outraged, screamed and threw the tray at John. They ran. Through a high arched entranceway and out once more into the narrow, crowded alleyways of the market. 

"Slow down!" hissed John. "Blend in!" But the girl's screams had done their job. John and Rodney hadn't gone fifty yards before soldiers burst out of the archway, faltered for a few seconds and then, with cries of "Stop! Lighters!" began their relentless pursuit once more.

The crowd, hearing the soldiers' shouts also turned against them and snatched at their clothes as they ran. Two determined-looking men stepped out, blocking the alley completely, but John and Rodney had been up against determined opponents before; John ducked a blow, swung his fist and caught his man hard in the throat, Rodney used the momentum of his headlong flight to dive under his opponent's fist and smack into his knees, toppling the man over like a bowling ball knocking down a pin. Then John grabbed Rodney's arm and they were off once more, fighting their way through a hoard of angry shoppers, forcing their way through with a punch here, a kick there. 

John felt Rodney tugging him hard and then suddenly the air was thick with choking red and yellow dust and John's eyes were streaming and his nose and throat on fire; Rodney had pushed over a stall laden with spices. John allowed himself to be tugged along, Rodney's madly grinning face appearing in front of him through the haze of orange dust and streaming tears.

They burst out of the narrow confines of the alley into bright sunlight and a busy roadway, hovering vehicles streaking past. It was shocking; like coming across a freeway on New Athos. The road ran tight up to the buildings; they could go back into the danger of the market or meet a quick end in the speeding traffic.

A vehicle like a large motorcycle shrieked to a halt beside them and a voice commanded, "Get on!" Hearing shouts rapidly approaching from behind, John and Rodney swung their legs over the vehicle and found themselves hurtling at breakneck speed along the highway, zipping in and out amongst slower vehicles, and thankfully moving further and further away from their pursuers.

They drove on until they had left the town behind and then they swerved onto a turning which took them between fields rich with lush crops and down a slight slope to the river. A low-level complex of gleaming white buildings was set amid colourful, well-irrigated gardens.

The vehicle came to a halt and sank slowly to the ground. John and Rodney climbed off and so did the helmeted rider, who stood facing them, head tipped to one side as if sizing them up. The helmet was removed to reveal a mass of finely-braided black hair and an exotic face with thickly kohled eyes that could have come straight from an Egyptian tomb painting. The white linen pants and top she wore looked cool and stylish.

John glanced at his and Rodney's tattered outfits and ran a hand through his hair. It came away orange and he sneezed as the hot spice drifted into his face once more.

The lady raised a sharply-defined eyebrow. 

"I think baths before introductions," she said. She snapped her fingers and servants came scurrying up to escort John and Rodney into the house.

oOo

John's eyes wandered around the room as he nibbled at some kind of kebab-type dish. It reminded him of pictures he'd seen of Ancient Roman dining rooms, complete with couches on which to recline while eating. If he leant up on his couch slightly he could see through a row of columns to a courtyard with a central pool. He wondered if it was for swimming or for fish. He could almost have swum in some of the pools in the bath house that he and Rodney had been taken to. Hot pools, cold pools, medium pools, steam rooms; anyway, they were both definitely clean, and clad in silky bathrobe-type garments with matching pants. John felt like they'd slide off if he moved too fast.

The Lady's name was V'stet. She had observed their encounter with the patrol and had set servants to track their progress so as to be in the right place at the right time in order to whisk them away from danger.

"My father and my mother were both able to utilize the technology of the Ancients; I will not utter the disgraceful term that is now used for such people." She sipped pensively at her glass of wine. "Once my family was powerful. Now, they have been taken who knows where and I am all that is left. That is why I decided to help you." She sat up straighter and drew up her feet to sit cross-legged, her hands loosely folded in her lap. "I hope you can trust me enough to tell me who you are and what is your purpose. Are you with the Resistance?"

"No," replied John. "But I guess we would be if we could find them!"

"How would we contact them?" asked Rodney.

V'stet shook her head. "I have heard only rumours. It is said they have camps in the desert and the rainforest further south." She sighed. "But, to be completely honest the Resistance may just be a wishful myth for those of us who merely rebel in our hearts against the Queen's rule. Please, tell me of yourselves! You strike me as the kind of men around whom resistance could rally!"

John looked at Rodney, who shrugged. They would have to take a chance; they still had a long way to go. Between them they told V'stet of their crash landing and journey so far. They were deliberately vague about their origins and V'stet did not press them. She listened, a finger occasionally tapping her lower lip in thought, her eyes sometimes narrowing shrewdly.

When they had finished, she said, "You have given me much food for thought and there is information that I could add which will, I think, clarify matters." She smiled at them both, then and her face looked younger and somehow speculative. "We will discuss this more in the morning. For now, it is late and I have had chambers prepared for you!" Servants appeared and John and Rodney said goodnight and were led away.

oOo

Moonlight shone through John's window and he decided to step out onto the veranda before going to bed. He took off the robe, threw it on a chair and strolled outside wearing just the pants, his bare feet slapping quietly against the tiled floor. The gentle evening air was pleasantly cool against his skin and he stretched his arms wide and then let them fall, slack at his sides.

John stood at the edge of the veranda. He leant his forearms against the ornamental parapet and, letting out a long, silent breath, recalled the balconies of Atlantis. This was a beautiful place; moonlight glinted softly on the slowly-moving river and the delicate scent of lilies drifted, lightly fragrant from the lily beds in the shallows. But John wished with all his heart for the salty briskness of the winds of Atlantis and to see once more its towers shining in the morning.

"You are melancholy, John."

John turned and V'stet stood at his shoulder, the smooth curves of her body visible through sheer, soft green fabric.

He looked down, embarrassed.

"Just thinking about home, you know." He rubbed a hand round the back of his neck awkwardly.

She laid her hand on his shoulder and looked into his eyes, smiling gently. Her hand slid further round to press against his back, pulling him forward until their lips just touched together ever so slightly.

John reached forward to place his hands either side of her hips, his thumbs stroking up and down, wrinkling the fabric of her gown. The kiss deepened and her mouth was warm and eager and her hair smelled of cinnamon and sandalwood.

She pulled away from the kiss and placed both palms on his chest. John felt her breath, warm puffs of air on his bare skin. She ran her hands slowly down his sides, lingering over the smooth muscles covering his ribs, carefully avoiding the areas where shards of glass had cut him. Her hands moved further down to push just the very tips of her fingers underneath the waistband of his pants. John's breath came more quickly, his hands tightening around her body.

V'stet looked up at him, her lips parted, her eyes dark. She stepped back and, taking John's hand, led him slowly over the veranda and in through his bedroom door, closing it gently behind her with a soft snick.

oOo

In the morning, V'stet had gone and John was hungry. He got up to find breakfast was set out next to the pool and Rodney was already there, vigorously tucking in to some kind of flatbread and honey. His eyes flicked up at John and a small smile emerged. He wiped a trickle of honey off his chin with the back of his hand and reached for another flatbread. As John sat down Rodney looked at him again, the small smile turning into a self-satisfied smirk.

John picked up a date and bit the end off, chewing slowly. He looked down at the table. There were nuts and some kind of fresh fruit that might be nice. He poured himself a cup of a yoghurt drink and began sipping it. A discreet chuckle came from Rodney's direction.

"Something on your mind, Rodney?"

"Ha!" Rodney tore the flatbread vigorously in two and leant forward, his eyes meeting John's. "Kirk not the popular choice this time, then! Time for old Spock to step in!"

John choked on his drink, spilling it down his front.

Rodney leant further forward and lowered his voice. "How does it feel, Colonel, to be pipped at the post? To be the sidekick, not the hero?" He sat back, popping another piece of honey-laden bread into his mouth, "Some women just enjoy the finer things in life, I suppose! Brains over brawn!"

At this point V'stet entered and smiled sunnily at Rodney, who grinned back, his chin shiny with honey. She flicked John a glance full of mischief, her brown eyes so laden with challenge that he nearly choked on his drink again.

Instead he just shrugged and took another date.


	18. Planning

The room was heavy with the rich tones of mahogany and blood-red porphyry, dark shelving lining the walls and urns and sculptures creating an atmosphere of serious learning. It reminded Rodney of various university libraries and lecture halls be had known; he thought of his informally organised, that is to say cluttered lab, with regret.

"This was my parents' study," V'stet said, leading them toward a globe on a tall, wooden stand. She spun the globe with one hand and the planet moved ponderously on its axis. "Here is the Stargate." She pointed to a mark on the equator. "And here, as my parents discovered, are set other large devices of Ancient make." V'stet indicated seven other marks spaced equally around the equator, some on land, some in the sea.

"What are they, some kind of repeater stations?" said Rodney. "Strengthening the signal?"

V'stet nodded. "So thought my parents and their circle of scholars." She looked at the globe sadly, her fingers trailing over its smooth surface. "Questioning of the status quo has never been encouraged. The Priesthood direct us to accept the way things are as the will of the White-haired Angels; and thus it has always been thought natural that the areas of our planet toward the cooler latitudes are more primitive and have strange speech."

"But it's the field emitted from the Gate doing that!" said Rodney. "And these repeater stations must be reinforcing it somehow!"

"So my parents speculated!" agreed V'stet. "But if this is true, then my planet is corrupted beyond imagining and has been for time immemorial! The northern and southern latitudes kept in primitive slavery, the people reaped by silver flyers as if they were a sickening harvest! And here, we are kept in subjugation by the Priesthood, forced to live as they would have us live and, in latter years, forced to regard those of us who can use Ancient devices as evil and degenerate. This matter has set neighbour against neighbour and has even turned families against each other, even child against parent!"

V'stet turned away, her hands to her face, wiping impatiently at her tears. Rodney and John shuffled uncomfortably.

"But you said these repeater stations were made by the Ancients," said Rodney. He chewed his lower lip thoughtfully and spun the globe, running his finger around the equator. He shook his head. "No. This is wrong. This isn't how it's meant to be! The Ancients may have been, well, let's say, foolish and occasionally amoral, but they weren't stupid. This isn't how it's meant to work. It should be protecting the planet in some way! We've seen it before." He turned to V'stet and spoke decisively, jabbing his finger at the marks on the equator. "This is a system designed to protect your planet from the wraith! And given half a chance, I don't think it's beyond the realms of possibility that I could fix it!" His blue eyes gleamed and his fingers twitched as if the tools for the job were within his reach.

V'stet visibly brightened, but John looked doubtful.

"Have you got some kind of plan to get that half chance, McKay?"

Rodney drooped slightly. "Well, we have to get to the Gate one way or another, don't we?"

"V'stet, what do you know about the Gate?" asked John. "Is it in a city? Heavily guarded?"

"Come, sit," V'stet gestured to a heavy, cloth-covered wooden table and they each pulled out a chair and sat down. "The Gate lies within the temple complex in the city of Leturu. I have been there but once, as a child, when my parents attended the coronation of the newly elected King."

"You elect your rulers?" asked Rodney.

"Yes, although our current Queen stood unopposed."

"What does she look like, this Queen?" asked John.

"She rarely appears, and is always veiled," replied V'stet.

"Huh, not surprising!" said Rodney. "People might be put off by the green skin!"

"And the teeth," agreed John.

"You believe she is wraith?" said V'stet, twisting a jewelled ring on her finger. "And that she and the Angels are one and the same; no more than predatory beings, exploiting this planet for their own ends!"

John reached out as if to put his hand on hers but then dropped it to pluck awkwardly at the tablecloth instead.

"Erm... V'stet, you know that really we're just trying to get home," he said.

"I know," she said quietly, "and you should go if you can, if you can get to the Gate."

"Well, what I mean is," he continued, "We'll do what we can. We'll fix it if we can."

"Yes!" Rodney gave her a tentative pat on the shoulder. "We're good at that kind of thing! I do the technical stuff, he blows things up!"

"You blow things up too sometimes, McKay!" said John pointedly.

"Oh, yes, well, I suppose!"

V'stet laughed. "We will make plans!" she said. "And planning requires refreshments!"

"Couldn't have put it better myself!" agreed Rodney.

oOo

"How fast will it go?" asked John, regarding the sleek little craft as it bobbed gently on the water, the low sun glinting off the sharply tapered prow. Rodney rolled his eyes and tutted. V'stet quoted a speed in local units, but seeing John's look of incomprehension, said, "Fast enough for your purposes, and as you will be traveling at night you will need to be cautious."

"But you think the river is our best bet?" asked Rodney, "even though it's patrolled?"

"Yes," said V'stet firmly. "It is believed that the cataracts are not navigable at this time of year, when the water is low. Many travelers have been dashed to pieces on the rocks! But since my parents were taken I have made it my business to explore all available escape routes and with the programme I have installed into the _Tadpole_ ," she indicated the little boat, "you should be able to find a safe path, even at night."

"And we leave the river here," said John, indicating a point on the map V'stet had given them.

"Yes, and then due East until you hit the K'ret Oasis." V'stet fiddled with one of her tight braids and shook her head. "I cannot think of another way of making contact with the Resistance. If they exist at all they will at some point pass by the Oasis."

"And if not, we'll hook up with a caravan, make our way south that way," said John.

V'stet looked out across the broad, placid waters of the river, the far bank becoming obscured by the failing light and the rising mist. "It is a shame ours will be such a short acquaintance!" she said.

"We might come back!" said Rodney. "You know, if it all works out!"

"You will always be welcome!" she said, regarding them both with a mischievous half smile.

Rodney's cheeks reddened and John shuffled awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Um... thanks," John said. "For the rescue, the intel and... erm... everything!"

"Yeah, thanks," Rodney squeaked, feeling like he should do or say something else, but not sure what.

V'stet placed her hands gently on his shoulders and looked into his eyes. Then she leaned forward and kissed him, slowly and thoroughly.

Rodney blushed even more. "Oh, ha, erm... yes, well," he floundered.

Then V'stet stood in front of John and, with total unselfconsciousness, kissed him too. Then she smiled generously at them both and said, "I thank you both for a pleasant interlude and wish you good fortune on your journey and a happy return to your people." She looked out over the river once more. "The mist has risen sufficiently for stealth; you should depart."

John hopped aboard the little craft and started the engine as he had been shown; it purred softly, barely to be heard above the rippling of the water. Rodney looked down at the gap between the river bank and the boat with trepidation, but boldly stepped out and managed to keep his balance, sitting down next to John.

John gently increased the power and they drifted out into the river, pushing against the flow of water and swiftly disappearing into the mist.

They traveled silently for several minutes, toward the centre of the river where the current was stronger but the mist would hide their presence from either bank. Rodney felt the dampness of fine water droplets in his hair and settling on his clothes, his old t-shirt and BDU pants, now bleached a strange grey-green by the sun.

"So," he began, twiddling his thumbs shiftily.

"Yeah," John agreed.

"Do you think...?"

"Standard hospitality in these parts or special treatment?" John shrugged. "Who knows?"

"Huh!" Rodney looked out at the greyness around him, various not unpleasantly confused thoughts drifting round in his head. "Well, there we are then!" he said, drawing no particular conclusion from his musings.


	19. White Water

"Relax, McKay, we're nearly through!"

Rodney released his white-knuckled grip on his seat but still sat rigidly, his shoulders tensed up around his ears. The rush of the opposing current came from all directions and in the darkness he could see flurries of white amid the smooth black of the coiling, writhing water. His eyes flicked down to the display which John was using to thread his way skilfully through the treacherous rapids. The engine whined high-pitched in its battle against the current; the little craft jinked suddenly to one side and Rodney saw John correct their course, lower lip gripped between his teeth in concentration.

Then the water was calm once more, sliding past them in smooth, oily blackness. John turned to Rodney with a chirpy grin. "That was cool!"

 _He treats it like a computer game_ , thought Rodney, smiling weakly. "Yes, because running dangerous rapids in the pitch black is so much fun!"

John shrugged, looking disappointed that Rodney didn't share his enthusiasm.

"It's not pitch black now, anyhow," he said, nodding toward the faint glow on the horizon. "We should look for somewhere to hole up."

V'stet had recommended hiding in the reed beds bordering the river during the day and so John steered the Tadpole toward the thickest patch of reeds he could see. Reducing the boat's speed, the sharp prow pushed the tall plants to either side allowing them to slide through; the reeds closed back into place behind them, covering their tracks. John switched off the engine and allowed the boat to drift to a halt. The ripples of their passing died down and their concealment was complete.

The little two-seater was not the most comfortable place to spend the day. The reeds didn't shelter John and Rodney much from the heat of the sun and after a couple of hours Rodney's legs began to cramp and he wriggled from side to side to try to relieve them.

"Stop shuffling! You're making waves!" griped John.

"Cramp!" hissed Rodney, leaning back and sticking his legs up over the control display.

Occasionally the throb of an engine could be heard passing along the river, sometimes the cries of fishermen and in the background the distant whisper of traffic on the highway. John and Rodney remained as still and quiet as possible and it was a relief when the river traffic diminished and they could tell by the purple-streaked sky overhead that the sun was setting.

The mist that rose that night was sparse and trailed in wispy curls around the Tadpole as it cut through the water. John steered the boat close to the reeds along the riverbank and reduced their speed to a crawl. Neither man spoke and the silence, broken only by the murmur of the river and the gentle flutter of the engine, was oppressive.

Rodney stared into the gloom, seeing nothing but the black river bordered by towering columns of reeds. He glanced at John, noticing his hands tight on the controls, his eyes flicking from side to side, tensely.

"What's wrong?" Rodney whispered.

John shook his head. "Maybe nothing. We're too exposed here. I don't like it."

They traveled on into the night. John flicked at the controls, bringing up the map of the next treacherous cataract. 

"How far?" breathed Rodney, feeling any speech was too loud in the stillness.

"Coupl'a klicks," replied John, softly. "We'll stop once we're through."

Rodney reflected afterwards how quickly a situation can change; from calm to chaos, from apparent safety to danger in one moment. A startling glare of white light, the roar of an engine as a large boat broke out of the reeds and a blaring, magnified voice: "This is a Queen's Patrol! Halt and prepare to be boarded!"

It crossed Rodney's mind as he was flung violently back in his his seat by the force of their acceleration, that the patrol would have their work cut out boarding the tiny Tadpole. He briefly pictured armed men crouching in a bunch on the tiny prow, but then his thoughts were swept away by several shocks of cold water in his face as John hurled the boat from side to side, zig-zagging to evade the Patrol boat's flashlight. The swinging light caught them and Rodney heard the report of a weapon and a plume of water erupted just off their port side. The high-pitched whine of the engine increased in urgency as John pushed it still harder. Rodney turned round in his seat, hands clinging on tight as they bucked and bounced and flew over the water.

"They're gaining!"

"Rapids!" said John succinctly.

Rodney heard the rush and churn of the cataract even above the throbbing engine of the patrol boat. Then they were amid the foaming torrent and Rodney saw John's eyes narrow and his lips whiten with absolute concentration. He flicked the controls here and there with every appearance of randomness, but the resulting brief halts, sudden rushes and turns took the little boat through the maze of rocks like a kayak negotiating an Olympic slalom course. Rodney looked over his shoulder once more; the patrol boat had turned, broadside on, having pulled up before the cataract.

"They can't follow!" he yelled, then immediately ducked as a beam of red shot toward them, narrowly missing to hit the surface of the water where it created a jet of super-heated steam. "Faster! We need to go faster!"

"Nearly through!" John said through gritted teeth. "Then we'll leave them behind!"

The beam of red came again; it hit and the boat jolted and spun through one hundred and eighty degrees, smacking into a series of rocks. Rodney wedged himself tight in the footwell as the boat was flung here and there; he heard John shout in frustration and saw him wrestle frantically with the controls, his head flicking over his shoulder, finding a safe route through even while steering backwards at high speed in the confusing flicker of the probing searchlight. Rodney, looking up, caught a flash of John's manic grin as he used the force of the current to spin the boat to face upstream once more, but John's triumphant cry was cut off as a rock seemed to rise beneath them and the boat's momentum forced it up out of the water. Rodney heard John's frantic cry: "Jump!" He heard the whine of the engine change pitch as it emerged from beneath the surface. He froze, eyes clenched tight shut, limbs rigid, as the boat flew, corkscrewing, through the air and suddenly he was falling. In a whirling confusion he felt himself hit not water but damp earth and he tried to roll himself into a ball as he skidded and bounced over mud and reeds. Then ahead of him the darkness was shattered by a terrifying blast and Rodney thudded to a halt and covered his head as debris rained down about him. 

He stayed, curled up tight, arms over his head, too shocked to assess himself for injuries, his breathing fast and shallow. He knew he needed to move, hide himself, find John, but his body would not respond. Gradually his heart rate slowed, his mind left its panicky state and he slowly opened his eyes to darkness and flickering firelight. Rodney uncurled slowly, wincing, dreading the crushing pain of a broken bone or internal injuries. He felt neither, just a whole series of depressing scrapes and bruises and an overall battered feeling. His t-shirt was torn at the shoulder and blood oozed out of a nasty scrape. Orange flames danced on the remains of the Tadpole and Rodney thought of the spare clothes V'stet had given them. And the food. He shook himself, his brain catching up with events, realising his danger.

Black shapes loomed up out of the darkness and Rodney heard a shout ahead of him and an answering cry from behind. He climbed unsteadily to his feet, looking for a means of escape, a place to hide, any sign of his friend. A rough hand grabbed his shoulder, another gripped his arm and slapped his hand down on a small Ancient device. Rodney didn't even know what it was, but nevertheless, the blinking green light that appeared betrayed him and his captors roughly pulled his hands behind his back, cuffing him tightly.

Rodney was pushed and pulled over the uneven ground, away from the river, hearing one of the men asking about "the other" and getting the reply "rapids took him". He tried to turn around, back toward the river but was firmly shoved back on track.

"No! Wait! You can't leave him!" Rodney protested, earning himself a blow to the back of the head and a "Move it, Lighter!" Rodney moved, his head and heart in turmoil, disbelief and defeat in the sag of his shoulders and his wide, unseeing eyes. He found himself pushed into a large vehicle, his cuffs fastened to the floor next to a ragged group of men, women and some children. The door was slammed shut and they were left in darkness. Rodney heard his captors get into the front, the engine started with a rough clatter and the vehicle moved forward, bumping and jolting with a bang and a clash of gears as it floundered over the rough ground. Then the wheels met the smooth surface of the highway and it sped up, away from the wreck of the Tadpole, away from John. 

As the dawn blossomed pink over the wide river and the morning breeze rose and made the reeds dip and sway, Rodney was carried away, imprisoned and lost in the dark; his spirits sank into despair.


	20. K'ret Oasis

John crouched, hidden by the reeds, shivering from shock and the chill pre-dawn breeze. Patrolmen were everywhere, those who had leapt from the boat to search the riverbank and those who had pulled up in a battered vehicle the size of a school bus.

John could see an orange glow further along the riverbank. A glow that had nothing to do with the coming dawn. His stomach clenched with anxiety; had Rodney got out in time? John had leapt from the Tadpole into the churning white water, but he didn't know if Rodney had done the same. The current had tried to take John back through the maze of boulders, but he had managed to haul himself up onto a rock and had remained motionless for several terrifying minutes while the floodlight swept back and forth over the cataract, searching for him. When the boat finally moved away he had jumped and scrambled from rock to rock until he had landed in the shallow reed beds and waded through the muddy water to the collapse onto the firmer land of the riverbank.

Crouching amongst the reeds John could feel his body stiffening up. Although he thought he'd got off fairly lightly, his chest was bruised from impacting a boulder, his knees and elbows were scraped and his left wrist was throbbing from an awkward landing. John immediately forgot his injuries, though, when he heard Rodney's distressed voice and through the sheltering reeds, saw him, with hands cuffed behind him, being manhandled toward the Patrol vehicle. John seethed with impotent anger; it was just possible he could take out the three men guarding Rodney, but the other Patrolmen heading back to their boat would be sure to hear the disturbance and he couldn't deal with all of them. Rodney was pushed into the back of the truck and the doors were shut. John waited, tense, ready to move. The Patrolmen headed for the cab and John emerged slowly from his hiding place. As soon as the doors slammed, he sprinted as fast as he could; the engine started, the vehicle began to move and John sprang, caught hold of the metal trim like a ridge running around the edge of the roof and hauled himself on top. He lay spread-eagled, face down, hands gripping the trim, sliding around as the vehicle bounced and jolted over the rough ground. It turned onto the smooth surface of the highway and John felt the wind buffeting him as the vehicle picked up speed.

John risked a quick glance up and saw the road, a pale, straight ribbon stretching off into the desert, just touched by the pale golden light of the rising sun. He put his head down and clung on.

The sun rose and the vehicle sped on. Initially John was grateful for the heat which dried his clothes and halted his shivering, but then the metal roof began to burn his skin and the searing heat of the desert sun scorched the back of his neck and exposed arms and legs. John felt like he'd been laid out on a barbecue. His head began to ache and he knew he wouldn't be able to hold on much longer.

The road began to drop and curve slightly down the side of a dry, rocky hill; John felt himself sliding to one side, his grip weakening. The road turned again and John caught a view of blue water, tall palms and a scattering of tents, some more permanent buildings and vehicles. He wondered if he should let himself slide off the roof; if the oasis was their destination it would be best if he made the rest of the way on foot. But the vehicle took a side turning, narrow and pot-holed. The decision was taken out of John's hands when the roof suddenly seemed to disappear beneath him, then bounced back up to send him tumbling over the side and down onto the hard, dry ground. His momentum carried him rolling over and over until he stopped and lay, face down, choking from clouds of yellow, sandy dust.

John moaned, his fingers curling into the dirt and grit. The knowledge that Rodney was being taken further away forced him into motion and he drew his arms and legs under him and tried to push himself up, but lurched and fell again from dizziness and pain. He tried again, swearing through gritted teeth and made it to standing, the yellow road and the white-gold sky spinning and dancing in his vision. They settled and he began to stagger along the track, following the curve of the hill.

Rounding the curve, John looked down and saw what must surely be Rodney's destination. It reminded him of movies he'd seen; the high fences, the few long, low wooden buildings, the watchtowers. It was a concentration camp. As he watched, a gate opened and armed guards stepped to one side as the Patrol vehicle entered. The prisoners were taken out, some stumbling and being pulled roughly to their feet. John could tell which was Rodney, even at this distance; though his shoulders sagged dispiritedly he still looked around, taking in his surroundings. _Know your enemy_ , John had taught him. Rodney would be alert to any means of escape. But for the moment John had no clue how that could be achieved.

He looked down at himself, bleeding and covered in dust, his clothes torn, every limb aching. He felt around his neck; the leather pouch was still there containing a few precious coins and the Ancient compass. He felt around his belt; a knife in a leather sheath, given him by V'stet. These, then were his resources. They would have to do.

oOo

Mirembe unloaded her battered old truck, carrying her supplies into the kitchen of the weather-worn single storey building that served as both her home and her business. Flour for flatbreads, bags of ilsi grain which would boil to a bland but filling paste, nets of root vegetables for stewing and a couple of small glass jars to replenish her precious stock of dried spices.

One more trip out to the truck would do it. Mirembe lifted the net of halla roots and paused, squinting into the shadows of the alley between her cookhouse and Lesedi's general store. There was someone there, leaning against the wall. At K'ret Oasis people that lurked in the shadows were, in Mirembe's experience, looking for one of two things: trouble or help. Mirembe had a weapon in the capacious pocket of her faded blue dress which would take care of the former. She put one hand in her pocket, found the grip and flicked off the safety. In case of the latter, she would see if she could persuade the mysterious figure to emerge.

She called out. "You after food? Kitchen'll be open soon."

The figure took a faltering step forward into the sunlight and stood, swaying slightly, one hand shading his eyes. Mirembe looked at the man's filthy, bloodstained clothes,

"I need water," he croaked. "Food. Clothes. I can pay."

The man's legs shook and he fell back against the solid safety of the wall. He began to slide down to the ground, but in a few quick strides Mirembe was at his side, hauling one of his arms round her shoulder and slipping her own around his waist to support him.

"Come on, I've got you," she encouraged. "Come inside."

The man leant heavily on Mirembe and his head sagged. She saw the burnt skin on the back of his neck and thought his problem might be heat exhaustion as much as injury. She steered him through her tiny kitchen, past the door that led to her servery and into the little room that was her living area. She lowered the man to sitting on the cot and released him carefully; he stayed sitting up, but slumped further forward, his head drooping.

Mirembe brought a cup and a pitcher of water from the kitchen. She poured some water and pressed the cup into the man's trembling hands. He drank, slowly at first and then more thirstily, the water spilling and running down his throat, creating tracks in the dust and dried blood. He finished and drank a second cup, then looked up at Mirembe with more awareness in his gaze.

"Thanks," he said.

"Mirembe. My name is Mirembe."

"Thanks, Mirembe. I'm John." He put a hand to his forehead and then rubbed his eyes.

"You have a headache?"

He nodded slightly, eyes closed.

"You have cuts that need cleaning or you'll get sick." Mirembe looked him up and down, unsure where to start. There came a shout from the servery. John started in alarm and looked up wildly.

"My customers are getting impatient. I need to go and serve them." She looked down at John uncertainly. "Stay in here. Stay quiet. You can wash in there." She gestured to a curtain hung across the corner of the room then turned to go back through the kitchen, stopped and turned back.

"Did you escape from the camp?"

John shook his head. "My friend. He's in there. They took him."

Mirembe nodded sadly. It was a story she'd heard all too often before: friend, spouse, parent, child. So many taken, so many lives ruined. Mirembe tried to help where she could, having been in the same position herself, but it was never enough.

She left John slumped on her cot, took the pan of stew from the kitchen stove and carried it through to the servery. Spicy vegetable stew, ilsi grain mash and flatbread; always the same simple meal but it was cheap and filling and Mirembe's was popular with travelers. She served meals steadily for an hour or so, with a smile and a laugh and some tidbits of gossip, then trade began to slacken in the oppressive afternoon heat and she closed up the shop and set everything straight ready for the evening trade.

In the little living room her guest was stretched out on his back on the bed, asleep. One arm was flung over his head and the other, the wrist swollen, resting on his chest. He'd obviously used the washing area in the corner of the room and just had a towel wrapped round his waist. He'd spread another towel out on the bed and was lying on it; Mirembe could see why. Numerous cuts had opened while he was washing and would have got blood on her bedding. She observed what she could without disturbing him. None of the cuts looked deep enough to need stitching, which Mirembe was glad of; she had stitched wounds in the past but was always nervous about it. Anyway, sticky strips would do in this case.

Mirembe reached beneath the cot and pulled out her medical kit. She took pride in keeping it well stocked so that she was always ready to help when needy people arrived at the Oasis, as others had helped her once upon a time. She set out her supplies on a low table and considered how best to wake her guest. Such people tended to be nervous and could even be violent if awoken suddenly. An idea occurred and she plucked a woven-palm fan off a hook on the wall and began wafting it back and forth near John's face. His black hair stirred in the breeze and his eyelids began to twitch and then opened.

His head turned toward her and there was a moment of confusion in his eyes before he murmured, "Mir..."

"Mirembe," she prompted.

He began to smile, but then seemed to remember his semi-naked state and gathered the towel more closely round him and struggled to sit up. Mirembe placed a hand in front of his chest, preventing him. She gestured to her medical supplies on the table.

"First I will clean your injuries and then find you something to wear." She smiled at his embarrassment. "Once I was a girl with three brothers older than me and two younger! I have seen it all before!"

John lay back down, looking resigned rather than relaxed. Mirembe opened a packet of disinfectant wipes and began.


	21. New Friends

Rodney shivered, not because he was particularly cold, but because he was terrified, and not just for himself but for the people who had arrived at the prison camp with him. They had been split into two groups and, as the other group had consisted of a very old couple, a man with a broken leg and two women who were obviously sick, Rodney worried about what had happened to them; he tried to reassure himself that they were being cared for, but the attitude of the guards hadn't inspired him with confidence. The alternative, however, was unthinkable.

Images of John kept popping into his head: the way he played in the rigging of the Seadragon like a kid on a jungle gym, his grin as he negotiated the rapids in the Tadpole. A part of Rodney believed that John must still be out there, working on a way to rescue him from the camp and get them both home; he couldn't possibly be dead, lost to the river, leaving Rodney alone on an alien planet. No, he wouldn't think about it.

He looked around the hut that he and the others had been forced into. It had already been crowded, wooden bunks overflowing with men, women and children so that there was nowhere to sit or lie but the floor. The smell of unwashed humanity was unbelievable.

A voice intruded on his misery. "You got eyes like my Pa."

Rodney looked up to find a blue-eyed child staring at him; one of the kids that had been brought in with him. He scowled discouragingly.

"My Pa does that too. He says, 'Net, leave me be, I'm sleeping,' or 'Net, why don't you run off and play?'"

"Sounds like a wise man," said Rodney. "Why don't you go and listen to more of his wisdom?"

The child shuffled, looking down, and mumbled, "Pa's not here. Or Ma. Or Jace. Or Tab. Or..."

Rodney interrupted, "Yes, yes, I get the picture." He realised the child must be alone and, uncomfortable as he was around children, thought he'd better make an effort. "So, what are you, anyway, boy or girl?"

The child looked at him, round-eyed, as if contemplating an insect that could prove venomous.

"I'm a girl," she said, slowly, with a generous side order of scorn. She folded her arms and tapped one finger on her lower lip, in pantomime of deep thought. "What are you?"

"I'm a scientist!" he said, in an attempt to depress pretension. "A physicist! A mathematician! A, an intergalactic explorer!" He smirked, in triumph, a 'beat that!' expression on his face, which slowly faded under Net's withering stare.

"It's not a competition," she said, primly.

Rodney thought and kind of hoped he'd offended her so that she'd target someone else, but she sat down next to him, drew up her bony knees and hugged them close. She scrutinised him, up and down; Rodney felt like a specimen under a microscope.

"What?" he barked.

"Your clothes are strange."

"So are yours!" he replied, regarding her sack-like dress.

Net leant closer, confidingly. "This is my night dress," she whispered. "They came at night and... and I had to go with them." She sniffed slightly, but raised her chin, her lips tightly compressed. "They came cos me and my gang, we found this thing and the others said, 'That's just junk!' but when I picked it up it was happy and it sang to me in my head and it was like it was saying 'Hello! I'm so pleased to meet you!' But Pa said it was bad and I had to go away."

"You sound like a friend of mine."

She looked up, with interest. "Do things sing to your friend?"

"All the time."

"Do... do they get him into trouble?"

"All the time."

"Oh." Net continued her scrutiny. "What's your name?"

"Dr Meredith Rodney McKay."

She repeated this a couple of times under her breath, experimentally. "That's too long. What shall I call you?"

"You can call me Sir."

"Why?" she asked, flatly.

"Oh, whatever, call me what you like."

"I like the Rodney bit. Raaahhdneeee," she said, opening her mouth wide. "You have a cut there, Raahdneee." She pointed to his cheek. "And there." She pointed to his shoulder. Then she knelt up and continued to catalogue his cuts and bruises with a relentless "and there and there and there," until he interrupted loudly, "Yes, I know, I know, that's enough!"

"Do they hurt?"

"Some of them."

"What happened?"

"Oh, erm, I crashed."

"Crashed what?"

"A boat."

"A boat! You crashed a boat!" Net said, enviously. "What into?"

"Oh, er, well, a rock and then the ground. It was my friend that was driving, John, that is, and it wasn't his fault. We were being shot at."

Net's eyes gleamed. "You had an adventure! Nothing exciting ever happens to me."

Rodney looked around the hut. "I think this qualifies."

"Oh!" Net's animated face fell as she came back to the reality of her surroundings and Rodney realised he too had temporarily been able to set his fear to one side. Now it all came crowding back. He felt a small hand burrow its way into his. Rodney really wasn't someone who liked children; he didn't understand the way they thought or what they needed or why they wouldn't leave him alone. But just for the moment it seemed that he had quite a lot in common with Net. He would allow the hand and hope it wasn't the slippery slope to intrusive intimacy.

Five minutes later, both were asleep, Net's head in Rodney's lap and his hand on her skinny shoulder.

oOo

John looked down at himself and smirked, half in pleasure, half in embarrassment. He looked like Lawrence of Arabia. Not the bit in the movie where he's all gleaming white, though: a slightly travel-stained, but nevertheless respectable Lawrence of Arabia. Mirembe had taken a couple of John's coins to her friend's shop next door and bought him the second-hand clothes, his old ones being finally beyond repair. There were some loose off-white pants and a long, belted tunic of the same colour. And a kind of robe-thing that went over the top made of light fabric designed to keep sand out rather than heat in. The head scarf was dark blue and Mirembe had shown him various ways of arranging it to shade his eyes and keep out sand.

John was very grateful that he'd happened upon Mirembe the day before. Once she had attended to his injuries and given him a bowl of her spicy stew, he'd fallen asleep and not woken until he'd heard his hostess clattering about in the kitchen, making ready for her morning customers. _And she must've slept on the floor_ , John thought guiltily. He also felt guilty when he thought about Rodney and what he might be going through, but recognised that there was nothing he could have done the day before. He wasn't sure what he could do today, but thought the first step might be to gather some intel.

He went through the kitchen and into the servery, feeling self-conscious in his new clothes. There was a counter which Mirembe was tidying and wiping down and two long tables with benches either side. The front of the building was open, wooden shutters having been folded back to reveal the main track through the Oasis village.

There was a bowl of something that looked a bit like cottage cheese at the end of one of the tables and by it a plate of flatbreads and a cup of water.

Mirembe looked up. "For you," she said.

"Thanks." John sat down stiffly at the table, feeling the stretch of bruised muscles and healing cuts. He was glad the blinding sun-induced headache had gone and his wrist, which Mirembe had bound, was less painful; he had been afraid that it was broken.

He watched Mirembe as he was eating. He thought she must be a year or so older than him and, he realised, maybe an inch or two taller. She was slim and graceful and he wondered if all her people were tall or was she exceptional, which led him to wonder where she came from and how she'd ended up running a diner on her own in the middle of a desert.

She finished her work, wiped her hands on a towel and straightened her headscarf, dark red today. Then she sat down on the bench opposite John.

"You have finished?"

"Yes, thanks, that was great. So, yesterday you asked me if I'd escaped from the camp," he said. "Does that happen often? People escaping?"

Mirembe's eyes fell. "No," she said softly. "It has never happened. But I hoped because... my family..."

John's heart sank. "Your family were taken?"

"Yes," she said. "Three years ago." Her face contorted but she took a deep breath and met John's eyes steadily. "I will tell you my story." John listened and the soft, precise consonants and gentle sing-song quality of her accent made the telling all the more devastating.

"I come from the far, far distant south," she said. "Past this little desert, past the great forest, past the Capital and its treachery. If you go further still, past the Great Desert that stretches for a thousand miles, you come to my homeland. And it would seem a strange place indeed to you," she looked up and smiled, then her eyes became distant as she remembered. "My land is hot and dry like the desert, but there is water. Vast lakes of water, shallow, like this," she moved her hands, one above the other, about eighteen inches apart. The water is salt so that we have to dig wells for sweet water. And the wind blows hard across the surface of the flats, hard and steady and we are masters of that wind. There is a place where trees once grew, but now they stick out of the water, dead and smooth like rock and ancient; and we cut the wood and shape it and smooth it, so that it is like a little boat. Then we attach a mast and a great sail that catches the wind so that we go shooting across the flats as fast as one of the hover cars!"

"Wind-surfing!" interrupted John with surprise.

"You know this?" she asked, intrigued.

"Yeah, well, it sounds like wind-surfing like we have at home."

"Your home must be distant indeed," she said knowingly. "I have never heard of anywhere else on this world where the wind is used in such a way."

"Yeah, well, it is a long way."

Mirembe continued. "My people lived, for the most part happily, even though some were taken occasionally by the Flitters." She saw John's look of confusion. "The Flyers."

"Darts," he said.

"Darts. I have not heard them called that. Anyway, five years ago, when the Capital began sending food and goods that we did not need and calling it a 'Gift', the Flitters began to come more often and more people were taken." She paused. "My parents, my husband, three of my brothers. Then the soldiers began to come and take away people who could make the little things light up. At first they said the people were needed in the Capital. Then they began saying anyone who could do such things must be bad. Then they began taking the young ones too. My children, Subira, Rutendo and Zuri. All were taken." Mirembe stopped, trembling slightly. She looked up and John saw the depth of her anguish in her eyes, but also the steely determination and force of character. "I followed," she continued. "I walked and I hitched and I stowed away and I searched until I found the camps. Some at the edge of the Great Desert, some on the borders of the forest and finally here. I did not find my children and when I came here, having journeyed many months, I was sick and too weak to continue. And old Tahira who ran this place took care of me. She said, 'You may never find your children, but here is a place you can help, and maybe find some peace.' So I stayed. Tahira died last year and now this place is mine and I try to help those in need."

John stared down at his hands, a confusion of thoughts and emotions churning in his head; he didn't know what to say or how to say it.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm glad you helped me. So, thanks."

"You are welcome, John," she replied with quiet dignity.

John felt he needed to say something else. Such trauma this woman had gone through, to lose so many of her family and then have her children taken and search so hard without reward.

"Um, I guess you know I'm not from these parts, I mean not from this world."

"You do not have to tell me where you are from."

"No, well, it wouldn't mean anything if I did tell you. The thing is, I'm trying to get home, well, me and my friend - we both are. And, I know things don't look too good at the moment, and I know there's only the two of us, but..." John looked up and met Mirembe's eyes with a level, direct gaze, his hazel eyes bleak but determined. "We're taking them down," he said, his voice vibrating with barely suppressed anger. "The things I've seen and heard, I can't..." He broke off, looking away, too choked with outrage. After a deep breath he continued, "I can't leave it like this and I won't. We're bringing this system down and we're getting the people out of these 'camps'," he spoke the word with contempt. "And I hope, I mean if I can, if there's any chance at all, I'll... One day I'll come back here and I'll walk in and I'll say 'Here are your children, Mirembe. I've brought them back to you.'" John's eyes dropped once more and his shaking hands curled themselves into fists. Then he got up abruptly and walked out.

Mirembe sat and considered his words. She did not allow herself to hope; hope had been sealed in a small container and set in the back of her mind a long time ago. But she realised John meant what he said and she recognised that he was a man who kept his promises.


	22. Wraith

For Rodney, the months of uncertainty were over, the guesswork proved correct; for here, in the green-tinted flesh, were the wraith.

Just after dawn, following a night of discomfort, hunger and thirst, they had been herded outside and made to stand in a long line. A wraith commander, flanked by two drones, had walked the length of the line like an officer reviewing his troops and every so often, with a flick of his hand, would indicate to the drones to take someone out of the line and add them to the growing huddle off to one side. The group consisted of the weaker, sicker looking people and once again Rodney wondered what would happen to them. Rodney had worried for Net for a moment, but, as she gazed at the wraith with fascinated horror, he simply passed her by. None of the young children were chosen.

Then had come the most humiliating part, and Rodney felt the full force of the wraith's total disregard for any kind of basic dignity or decency. They had been made to strip off and ruthlessly and unpleasantly hosed down, then the guards had come along the line with a bowl of a thick paste that they were directed to apply to any cuts or abrasions. Rodney's took a while and Net had to help, which was even more humiliating. Net didn't seem bothered by the whole nakedness thing and even giggled once or twice, which made Rodney wonder how old she was.

Struggling into the nasty orange overalls they were then given, Rodney asked her, and allowing for differences in day length and planetary rotation, worked out her age as about nine and a half in Earth years.

The next procedure seemed to be a step too far for Net. They were made to stand in line once more and as the line crept forward and cries of pain were heard, Rodney realised some kind of device was being used to inject an implant into the arms of the prisoners. He guessed it was some kind of tracker and wondered why it was necessary in a closed camp.

Rodney looked down at Net. Tears were running down her pale face and her thin body was trembling. He didn't know what to do. How do you comfort a child in such a situation, where there's really no likelihood of anything good happening? An idea occurred to Rodney.

"Net," he tapped her shoulder and allowed his fear to creep into his voice. "Hey, erm, Net?"

She looked up, sniffing, her mousey brown hair in a tangle.

"Um... see, I'm not very good at this kind of thing," he said. "Bit of a coward, actually, so I was wondering if you'd hold my hand while they, um...?" He nodded at the head of the line.

Net looked at him and then drew herself up straighter. She took Rodney's hand in hers and said, determinedly, "I'll go first so you'll see it's not so bad!"

Rodney was surprised to find his eyes welling up at her stoic expression and the suppressed tremor in her voice. He was even more moved when, reaching the head of the line, she stood in front of him, chin raised and held out her arm bravely. She couldn't suppress a yelp of pain when the implant was injected and tears sprang to her eyes once more, though her head remained high. Rodney knew his duty and, when his turn came gripped Net's hand tightly and let out a yell and a string of curses so that the guards looked at him scornfully. Net, however, squeezed his hand reassuringly while thoughtfully repeating his words under her breath as if storing them away for future reference.

Then came the definite highlight of the day. A table had been set up on top of which were steaming vats of some kind of stew and piles of bread. The prisoners were given a generous portion as well as access to as much water as they needed. Rodney and Net sat down on the hot, dusty ground together and ate in silence, both too keen to chase away their hunger for any kind of small-talk. Rodney felt energy flood back into his body and mind; he hadn't realised how weak he'd been feeling and when Net couldn't finish the generous adult's portion she'd been given, he was glad to finish it for her.

His stomach nearly decided to rebel when he saw the three wraith come out of one of the huts and he realised the group of weaker prisoners was nowhere to be seen. Then his re-energised mind began to make deductions and he wondered: why the tracker? Why the bright clothes? Why the plentiful food? Why the selection of the strongest? Some kind of work was required and not here; they would be taken somewhere else, where there was the potential to escape. Also, why the need for the small children, who couldn't be particularly strong? Some kind of work involving getting into small spaces? Or perhaps the wraith were simply looking ahead to a strong slave population for the future; Rodney shuddered with distaste.

He felt Net lean against him, exhausted from the day's trials. It didn't occur to Rodney to be annoyed at having a nine-and-a-half-year-old girl dependent on him; he decided simply that they were both getting out of this situation and that, given Net's determination and adaptability so far, it would be their combined resources that would give them the best chance.

oOo

At some point during the lunchtime service John appeared at Mirembe's side and calmly began helping her to ladle out the stew and ilsi grain to her customers. She accepted his help without comment and when the rush began to die down, pointed him in the direction of a small, insignificant-looking man sitting on his own at the far end of one of the tables.

"His name is Naru," said Mirembe. He works the route North from here to the great shore and south as far as the capital, Leturu. I have heard it said he knows how to contact the guerilla forces that live in the hills to the south."

John approached the man and sat down opposite him. Naru looked up, his shrewd brown eyes assessing John from beneath bushy grey brows.

"Something you want, stranger?" he said.

"I'm hoping you can help me," began John, warily.

"If you've got cargo to go south today I can help," replied Naru.

"Not cargo. Myself."

"How far? I'm heading for Leturu."

"Not that far," said John. "I'm hoping to meet up with some... friends along the way."

"Friends...," Naru repeated thoughtfully, scratching his beard. "Where might these friends of yours live?"

John looked at Naru with a guarded half smile. "Look, I'm going to level with you," he spoke softly, but with determination. "It's the resistance I'm hoping to meet up with and I'm hoping I'll be able to help them as much as they can help me."

"Resistance?" Naru repeated. "Don't know why you'd be asking me about them!"

John sighed and started to rub the back of his neck in frustration, wincing as he encountered the sunburnt skin. "Look, I don't have any secret codeword or handshake or any cloak-and-dagger stuff like that!"

"Well, you could touch this," said Naru, and beneath the far edge of the table, shielded from the rest of the room, he held out a cylindrical object. John looked at it. It was a recognisably Ancient device, but other than that it might have been anything from a can-opener to a weapon. He reached out a hand and barely brushed it with his finger before it began to hum and vibrate. Naru snatched it back and stuffed it in a bag.

"Well, Lighter, you've left yourself wide open. How about I call a patrol now?"

"How about you don't?" drawled John and, with his left hand which he'd kept beneath the table throughout their conversation, brushed the tip of his knife over the fabric of Naru's long robe.

"Huh!" grunted Naru. "Not as foolish as you look, then!"

John smirked sarcastically in response.

"I'll take you," Naru agreed. "But we'll need to get moving. There's a spot they watch once a day at sundown and it's a way off."

oOo

John scrambled up the rocky slope, the wind whipping at his clothes. Naru had dropped him at the roadside when the sun was low in the sky, pointing at a high peak jutting out from the range of low hills.

"How will they know I'm there?" John had asked.

"Just show a light," Naru had replied. "They'll come. Better hurry, though. Sunset, no later, or you'll be here another day."

As John climbed higher the scouring wind grew stronger and he pulled the fabric of his headscarf down over his brows and up over his face so that there was only a small slit left to see through. He pushed his body hard against the steepness of the slope and the buffeting of the wind, his legs burning, his recent injuries protesting. He could see the peak of the hill, black against the purple of the sky, and he increased his speed, the lure of allies to help him rescue Rodney and right the wrongs of this cruel world driving him on relentlessly.

John felt his heart labouring in his chest, his throat tightening as he struggled to draw in enough air. He forced himself to keep going and the slope became so steep that he had to use his hands to pull himself up, feet searching for gaps and protrusions, hauling himself up and up toward the summit.

At last, he forced his tired body over a jagged edge of rock and lay, lungs heaving, face down, exhausted. John knew time was short, the sun setting fast in the darkening sky; he pushed down on his hands beneath his chest and made it to all fours, then shakily to his feet, still gulping in great gasps of air. The sun was a dim orange sliver on the horizon, limning the tips of the rocky outcrops in gold. 

John reached into the pouch around his neck. He closed his eyes against the swirling, scouring sand and raised his hand high, the Ancient compass clasped hard in his fist. He felt the spark connecting his mind to the device and he poured all his will into the link so that light burst forth in coruscating blue-white brightness, shining out into the desert night like a beacon of hope. 

John's heart lifted. He felt like the Statue of Liberty welcoming the "huddled masses, yearning to breathe free". He gazed out into the darkness as the sun slipped beneath the jagged horizon and hoped that this moment would be the beginning of liberation for this world.

A sound intruded, barely to be heard above the roaring of wind in his ears. The sound grew and horror and desperation eclipsed the hope in John's heart as he turned swiftly from the purple-red glow of the sunset to see a silver beam skating across the hillside toward him. His mind shut down the bright compass and the blackness seemed to spring up around him. John, in despair, not knowing what else to do, sprang across the peak and leapt out into the void.

The beam followed, snatched him from the air and he was gone.


	23. The M'djarza

Rodney woke to darkness and motion once again and the sickening knowledge of the loss of his friend. He had lost track of the days since the whole camp full of prisoners had been loaded into several vehicles, chained to the floor by their ankles and the doors shut. Periodically the trucks stopped and the prisoners were allowed to get out to relieve themselves by the side of the road and were given food and water. Sometimes when they stopped it was dark, sometimes it was light. 

They were heading south, that much was obvious. They were also gaining height and the terrain was changing; there was much more vegetation and often the churning of the truck's engine was nearly equalled by the roar of heavy rain pounding the metal roof. 

Some prisoners speculated that they were heading for the capital, Leturu. Others thought perhaps they were going to be made to work on some engineering project.

"Roads through the M'djarza have always been bad. They'll have us digging cuttings and building bridges and such," said one man.

Rodney thought it highly unlikely that the wraith would be interested in improving the planet's transport links, but didn't say so.

"What's the M'djarza ?" he asked Net.

"The jungle!" she replied. "It's huge and there are karchas and hibnets and probably gethnies!"

Rodney couldn't see Net's face but could practically hear her eyes shining with excitement. He didn't ask what the creatures she had named were, but assumed by Net's enthusiasm that they would be clawed, fanged, venomous or otherwise lethal.

During their days of travelling in dark discomfort Net had occasionally curled in as close to Rodney as she could and he had felt her shaking with silent sobs. At other times she had been irritatingly bored and had asked endless questions, most of which he couldn't answer if they were about her world. He had staved her off by describing his team and some of their adventures, embellishing as he saw fit to make his role more satisfyingly heroic; he suspected Net saw straight through any deception, but she seemed to enjoy the stories nevertheless.

Leaning against Rodney, dozing drowsily in the stifling heat, she had said, "We'll escape and then we'll rescue John and then we'll go home."

Rodney grunted in agreement but without much conviction.

The truck ground to a halt and the prisoners prepared for another brief break in their interminable journey. But when the doors were flung open this time they were confronted by the sight of a large and very busy camp, numerous wooden huts set on the uneven, muddy ground, gangs of prisoners being herded here and there and no sign of any fencing or fortifications, just the occasional watchtower. Looking at the surroundings, Rodney could see why fences were not needed. The camp was naturally fortified by dense tropical rainforest; anyone who tried to walk out would probably be lost, poisoned or eaten within days, if not hours.

The prisoners climbed out of the trucks stiffly and were released from their chains. They stood, wide-eyed and confused in the humid air. What work could they be needed for here? A familiar sound intruded on Rodney's thoughts and without thinking he whirled around and, spotting a beam of silver light rushing over the ground toward him, dived out of its path, forcing Net into the ground beneath him.

There were no shouts of fear, no pounding footsteps running to escape. Rodney heard a jeering voice from above him and raised his head from the muddy ground in time to see a booted foot swinging his way. It caught him hard in the ribs and he rolled away from Net, breathless with pain.

"Get up!"

Rodney saw the boots shift, ready to deliver another blow, but then he felt small hands on his arm, tugging him upward, and heard Net's voice, saying, "Get up, Rodney, please!"

He staggered to his feet, hunched over, feeling sick and through pain-squinted eyes saw another culling beam sweep down and leave behind a group of prisoners, dirty, exhausted-looking, but completely unsurprised. They shuffled away toward one of the huts.

Rodney felt Net's hands still clinging to his arm. He patted them dispiritedly in a weak attempt at reassurance. More than ever he longed for the support of his team and for the safety of Atlantis, but he also recognised an opportunity. Surely, here, surrounded by wraith in this strange alien rainforest, they would find out some answers; they would find out why the wraith had gathered together all these people who carried the Ancient gene and what they hoped to gain.

oOo

John writhed, his chest convulsing, unable to take a breath, his senses overwhelmed by the urgent need for oxygen. Far away there were noises and sensations but he couldn't connect with them, his ribs an unyielding cage, immovable, unresponsive. Then the cage released and air rushed into his lungs, great gasps of life, in and out and mercifully, thankfully, in again. His body relaxed, chest still heaving and he became aware of a hard, gritty surface beneath him and, through barely open eyes, darkness lit by firelight. There was also a hand on his shoulder and muffled voices that became clear as the hissing in his ears subsided.

"Just winded, I think," said one voice.

"He landed pretty hard," came another.

"Keb must've picked him up in mid-air," said the first voice.

"What, you think he took a dive off the mountain?"

"Probably thought he'd finish himself before the wraith got him."

John was aware enough to feel he should set the record straight here. He began pushing himself up, one hand holding his sore chest, his head drooping as the firelight began to whirl around him.

"Take it slow!" said one of the voices and John felt hands supporting him.

"Not trying to kill myself!" he rasped, his breath still feeling forced and uneven.

Brisk footsteps approached and another voice above him spoke. "Well it sure looked like you were to me! You're lucky I'm a good aim with that thing!"

John squinted up at the speaker. "I thought wraith'd kill me for sure, but the fall might not. Seemed like the best option."

"Huh! Crazy!" The man held out a hand. "Up you get, crazy man!"

John took the hand and was pulled to his feet. He wavered a bit, took a couple of deep breaths and let go of the hand.

"Name's Sheppard, Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard."

"Keb," said the man. "Otherwise known as your local flyer pilot."

"We call 'em darts," said John.

"Which begs the question, who are 'we'," said Keb, one eyebrow raised. Then he gestured toward the campfire around which more men, women and a few children were sitting. "Come, sit down, I think we both have many questions to ask and to answer!"

oOo

Keb, a tall black man in his mid-thirties, was the leader of the resistance and, as he had said, pilot of their most valuable asset, a captured wraith dart. He had insisted on John activating a number of Ancient devices to prove himself a Lighter and therefore not a spy. John had grown impatient after the first few; he was tired, sore and hungry and didn't feel he had anything to prove. The fifth device sparked and smoked when John poked it angrily with a fingertip.

"I think that's pretty conclusive, don't you?" John sneered.

"We have to be careful," pacified Keb. "We've had spies try to infiltrate us before."

"Well, I'm no spy. And I'm not here to stay. I'm here to rescue my friend, set things straight and go home." He stared wearily into the flames, images of the last few months running through his mind. Somebody set down a plate of bread, meat and dried fruit next to him and he realised the faces round the campfire were all looking at him expectantly.

John ate and spoke between bites, detailing the salient points of his and Rodney's journey and discoveries. He came to the end of his story and looked at Keb, waiting for his response. Keb nodded thoughtfully.

"Much of what you have discovered is known to us," he said, "and although no spies have managed to infiltrate our ranks, we have men and women both in the temple complex and the palace at Leturu, and the camp in the M'djarza."

"M'djarza? I've not heard of that."

"The M'djarza is the mighty rainforest about a week's journey by road to the south. We have discovered that the wraith are carrying out a search of the forest in order to discover the lost city of the Ancients."

John nearly said "Another?" but stopped himself in time. "A city? Why do they want to find it?"

Keb looked at him intently. "You have discovered that the modifications the Ancients made to the gate have been corrupted by the wraith for their own ends. Our spies in Leturu tell us the wraith have not been able to duplicate these modifications for use on other worlds, but they have discovered Ancient texts that tell of the city, now lost in the M'djarza where the technology was developed. They hope to find information or equipment to enable them to enslave other worlds but they believe the city can only be found by those with Ancient blood in their veins."

"Sounds like a long shot to me," said John doubtfully. "Ten thousand years of decay, a huge area of dense forest..."

"Ah, but our informers tell us the wraith have been single-minded and systematic in their search and that lately more Ancient items have been discovered, so maybe they are close."

"And when they find it?"

Keb's brows lowered and his jaw tightened. "Death for the people they no longer need, continued slavery for the rest. And other worlds subdued, farmed like cattle, as we have been."

"So, what's your plan?" asked John.

"We are few and they are strong and have powerful weapons," sighed Keb. "But the time grows near when we must act. We cannot allow the wraith to find the city and the technology it contains. Our only hope is to mobilise the prisoners and hope to overwhelm the wraith by sheer force of numbers."

John thought of Sateda and other worlds, better equipped than this one, who had taken on the wraith and failed. He shook his head, started rubbing the back of his neck, then stopped when he encountered the still tender sunburn.

"I think you'd be better off employing stealth tactics," he said. " Or some kind of trickery or sabotage from the inside." He stifled a yawn. "Look, I'm behind you all the way but my priority has to be my friend. I need to get him out of that camp. And it's in your interests to help me; he's your man for fixing any Ancient tech."

Keb sighed. "I'm afraid that won't be possible," he said softly. "The camp was emptied earlier today. They are all gone."

John was stunned. "Gone? Not gone as in..."

"No! A convoy left the camp. It will head for the M'djarza."

"Then we can attack them on the road, find a good place for an ambush and..."

"We cannot!" interrupted Keb firmly. "They are heavily guarded and flyers, darts as you say, fly back and forth to check their progress."

John ran both hands through his hair in exasperation. "We need McKay! We can't risk anything..."

"We can't risk the whole for the sake of one man!" Keb interrupted again. "No!" he made a sharp cutting gesture as John began to speak again. "You talk of 'we' and yet you are not one of us! You cannot dictate our strategy, telling us 'this is how it will be'!"

"I'm sorry!" John held up his hands in a placating gesture. "I didn't mean to take over. But I know the wraith, far too well. I've fought them hand-to-hand, I've fought them ship-to-ship, I've been captured by them, I... I've been fed on by them." There were shocked gasps around the firelit circle. "I know what might have a chance, I know what'll likely get most of you killed and I know what I can't do: I can't fix the Gate."

"And you say your man can?"

"Yes," John said firmly.

Keb sat, staring into the firelight, his eyes flicking here and there as if he could see wraith in the jumping flames. 

"We must act," he said, his voice hard and unyielding. "We must rid this world of these... abominations!" He looked up at John. "Tell me, then, what would you do?"

The corner of John's mouth curved upward just slightly and his eyes gleamed with anticipation. 

"I have a few ideas," he said.


	24. Discovery and Darts

"Net! Wait! You're going too fast!"

Net's voice came from somewhere ahead, in amongst the close-packed boles of ancient trees and tangle of low-growing shrubs.

"They don't mind! They'll just track me anyway!" Net referred to the overseers, both wraith and human, driving them like sheep through the square kilometre of forest that was theirs to search that morning.

"I mind!" Rodney called crossly. "I can't keep up!" He forced his way through a gap between two trunks, cursing at the sound of yet another rent in his hated orange overall.

"I'm waiting for you!" Net's voice came again, and he pushed through more undergrowth to find Net sitting on a low sloping branch, bouncing up and down as if she were riding a see-saw. She'd tied her hair back roughly with a scrap of vine and had some drooping tropical flowers stuck in her breast pocket.

Rodney stopped, leaning against a tree, puffing hard. "I don't see... why you... have to race... ahead!"

"Cos today's the day!" she said, letting the springy branch bounce her up to standing. "Can't you feel it?"

"I can feel something biting my a... er... behind!" he replied testily. "Other than that, no!" Net scampered off again and he straightened up and resumed his ponderous progress, stomping on low branches that were out to trip him up and using his arms to swipe aside creepers and vines determined to strangle him. He could feel sweat running down his face and back and, in fact, everywhere and found himself looking forward to the afternoon's downpour which would at least leave him feeling clean for a few minutes.

The ground began sloping steeply down and Rodney gripped onto the vines and branches to either side to stop himself from slipping. He paused for a moment, listening. Thanks to Net's furious pace they were way ahead of the rest of their group. Net was right, though; the overseers wouldn't care. The tracker implants meant they could easily be swept up at the end of the day along with everyone else and deposited back at the camp courtesy of the culling beam.

Rodney could hear nothing but the sounds of the rainforest and his own laboured breathing. No snap of branch or rustle of leaves.

"Net?" No answer. Rodney hurried on down the slope, slipping on damp leaves and mud, scrabbling for well-rooted handholds to keep his balance. He negotiated a slimy patch of bare earth, but then his feet went out from under him and he slid down several yards, brought up short by the creeper he was clinging on to. He tried to get his feet under him but they flailed uselessly on the half-rotted detritus and he slammed back onto the steep slope again.

"Just let go!"

"What? Net?" Rodney floundered like a landed fish, seeing no sign of Net.

"Let go, Rodney, we're here!"

"What? Where are we?" He screwed himself round in the other direction, but then the vine he was clinging to gave way and in a slithering rush, Rodney felt himself fall. There was a strange moment of disorientation, almost like going through a wormhole and then darkness and the thud of landing on something soft.

"Told you!" came a small, smug voice.

Rodney found himself sitting on a bed of dead, dried leaves and creepers. He looked around and in the green half-light could see the smooth walls of a corridor, blocked at one end by damp earth and the vigorous growth of the forest. He looked up and was rewarded by a trickle of dirt in his face, falling from the hole directly above him. Net stood, where the gathered debris of years tailed off into the flat surface of the corridor. She waved her arms in satisfaction.

"Lost city? Found it!" she grinned.

"Oh! But... This is bad!" Rodney spluttered. "I mean, we can't let them, the wraith... I mean, we've found it, but they'll find us and then..." He got to his feet and held out his hand to Net. "We'll get out, quick, and pretend we weren't here! Come on!"

"No! It wanted to be found! I heard it singing to me through the trees: 'Here I am! Come find me!'" Net put on a high sing-song voice. "Didn't you hear it?"

"No, I didn't. Now come on, let's get out!"

"But we don't need to, Rodney!" Net rolled her eyes. "We're hidden, the city's hiding us. They'll think we just disappeared, 'Pop!' or something ate us, or something..."

Rodney closed his eyes and rubbed them with fingers and thumb. He took a deep breath. "Okay, I did feel something as I fell. You're saying that's some kind of cloak?"

"I don't know. I just know unless you're like us you won't get in. And I know we're hidden."

"So, some kind of field blocking our tracker signals and preventing anyone without the gene getting through," Rodney mused. "Fine. I've believed more impossible things before breakfast." He looked around, seeing the passageway stretching off into the darkness. "But they'll know where we disappeared, which is the same as X marks the spot. They'll get in one way or another."

"So, let's go discover the secrets before they do!" said Net with irrepressible optimism.

Rodney thought briefly about practicalities such as lack of water, food and indeed, light, but the lure of discovery overrode such thoughts and his eyes lit up.

"Lead the way!" he said and followed Net's pattering footsteps into the darkness.

oOo

It felt wonderful to be flying again, and although a wraith dart wouldn't have been John's aircraft of choice, under these circumstances he'd take what he could get. He brought the dart round in a tight turn for another pass, low over the top of the canopy, weaving his way around the giant emergent trees that thrust competitively higher than all the rest. John didn't like not being able to see the real world; it was a bit like flying a jumper with the HUD and no viewscreen. And no mental link. And controls and text that he barely understood. But, having spent a couple of days taking it in turns with Keb to ferry the resistance fighters to discreet positions in the locality, John was happy that he could make the dart do what he wanted.

The display showed the forest in outline and a scattering of different coloured dots moving slowly through the trees that were human and wraith lifesigns. Keb's spies had told them what to expect. Groups of prisoners were driven ahead of wraith and their human collaborators through designated sections of the forest in their search for the Ancient city. This made it relatively easy to pick out which coloured dots to sweep up with the culling beam. John altered his trajectory very slightly and then activated the beam, sending it sweeping down the line of overseers, snatching them up and freeing the prisoners; they could be rescued from the forest later. Hopefully they'd have the sense to stay together.

John stabbed at a button on the control panel and the expected text popped up in front of him. He guessed it meant "Are you sure?" or words to that effect, and, for the fourth time in the last half hour, poked the button again with a satisfied "Ha! Yeah, I'm sure!" thereby deleting the contents of the beam storage.

The display registered two sudden intense sources of heat roughly three o'clock from John's position and he knew that the next step of the plan was underway. A resistance fighter who had infiltrated the overseers had planted explosives in two of the watchtowers and their detonation was the signal for any prisoners in the camp to attack their guards and get the children into one of the huts for safety. Simultaneously, the resistance fighters would attack the camp and a select few, Keb included, would steal or destroy any darts that were on the ground. John's job was to continue sweeping up the overseers with the culling beam and engage any enemy darts where necessary.

He spotted another group of prisoners on the display, their line slow-moving and ragged, followed by a tighter line of mixed orange and red life-signs showing wraith and human guards. John swept them up and deleted them from the data matrix, then brought the dart round toward the camp.

Passing low over the camp, John took out the remaining two watchtowers with the dart's pulse cannon. The display showed a confusion of wraith and human life signs; John couldn't deploy the culling beam where he was as likely to sweep up friend as foe, so he decided to head back out over the forest.

Then there were other darts on the display, seven others, and John took his dart up a few hundred feet to observe. There were two heading away from the camp, flying roughly straight but with no flair or fancy manoeuvres; that would be Hellie and Kash, who had trained to fly the resistance dart but didn't have that much experience. Another dart fired on the camp: a wraith pilot in that one. One was firing on the three darts pursuing Hellie and Kash, swooping here and there, evading and taunting in an attempt to draw them off; that would be Keb.

John dived, target set, fired the pulse cannon and took out the dart firing on the camp in one shot. Then he set off in pursuit of the others taking his dart up again to come at the enemy from above. Keb had a dart on his tail and was leading it a dance over the higher ground, weaving through forest-covered hills. John left him to it and went to defend the two friendlies from their pursuers. He swooped down and took one of them by surprise, hitting the cockpit squarely with his pulse cannon and sending flaming debris spiralling down over the forest. The other dart was a long way ahead, firing repeatedly at the two resistance fighters who were hard put to evade the blasts. John fired, but was not yet in range. He forced the dart on, gaining ground, but still not close enough. He could see that Hellie and Kash were flying too close together and were in danger of both being taken out if one were hit. Then the enemy dart suddenly gained five or six hundred feet vertically and turned on a dime to hurtle toward the two resistance darts. In typical drone fashion, it was going kamikaze, knowing the impact of two darts colliding would definitely take out the other as well. John fired again and again and saw the enemy's starboard wing explode. It continued its descent, spiralling now toward its targets. Closer and closer John flew, his cannon firing continuously; the dart exploded under the onslaught but John was too late to pull up and he felt his dart jolt as he flew straight through the aftermath of the explosion.

Alarms began to blare, the HUD flickered. John gripped the controls tightly and noted the lie of the land beneath him; the dart shuddered and he knew he was going down. He struggled to keep the dart level and tried to steer for an area that was more lightly forested. The canopy was beneath him, then he was hitting the topmost branches, then he was crashing through the understorey, the craft shuddering around him, still trying to keep the dart straight, but with no real control. The branches reduced his speed and John was almost hopeful for a relatively safe landing when the dart hit something much more solid and spun completely around.

John felt himself hurled forward out of his seat and he reflexively flung out his arms. There was a split second's pain and confusion and then a sudden stillness.

Stillness but not silence, because the rainforest was full of bird calls and the hoots of strange animals and the relentless pattering of rain. John lay still, trying to process what had happened. He must have been unconscious for quite a while for the sounds of forest life to have resumed. He assessed his state without moving. He was lying, face down, half in half out of the cockpit, the opaque energy field that acted as a canopy having failed on crash landing.

John raised his head tentatively and groaned at the spike of pain and nausea that resulted. He lowered his head again and wriggled his toes and then legs, which seemed okay. Ribs felt a bit bruised, but nothing serious. Arms. John winced at a sharp twinge as he experimentally moved his left arm. He rolled onto his right side and very slowly sat up and brought his right arm round to cradle the left. A few more experimental wriggles led him to the conclusion that his collarbone was broken. He sighed and swore a bit, knowing things could have been much worse.

The dart had come to a halt nose down, half buried in the rotted vegetation of the forest floor and covered with vines and branches that it had brought down with it. John edged over the side and slithered to the ground, his legs, feeling like rubber, letting him slide all the way down until he sat in a crumpled heap on the dead leaves, wet through from the continuous downpour.

John had looped the blue headscarf round his neck while he piloted the dart so that it wouldn't get in the way. Now he used it to immobilise his arm, wrapping it round and securing it as best he could. It occurred to him as he struggled to tie the scarf with one hand and teeth, that he was remarkably calm. He was lost in a vast rainforest, injured and alone, with no food, no water and no knowledge of the array of dangerous, poisonous plant and animal life which was, in all likelihood, out to make a meal of him as soon as possible. But even 'calm' was the wrong word. John felt optimistic, almost as though he was among friends.

He pushed himself to his feet, paused a moment to get his balance and looked around. Hundreds of shades of green surrounded him all dripping with rain and so densely packed as to appear impenetrable. John was irresistibly drawn in a particular direction and staggered away from the dart purposefully. He moved slowly, stepping over small shrubs and dead branches until there was a curtain of vines in front of him. He paused for a moment, then reached out, pushed the vines aside and stepped through.


	25. The Lost City

The lights in the wall sconces flickered to life as Net skipped past and Rodney's fingers twitched in longing for a datapad or laptop. For lights to come on there must be a power source; Rodney imagined himself returning in triumph to Atlantis with a ZPM tucked snugly under each arm.

They had undoubtedly found the lost city; the architecture was unmistakable. But Rodney didn't think the layout was the same as Atlantis at all. He'd certainly not spotted any towers emerging from the forest canopy and the corridor they were following didn't remind him of any in the marine city. They came to a T-junction where their corridor ended and Rodney could see a broad way stretching off into the darkness either side. There was a familiar set of doors in one wall and before he could investigate Net had run up to them. She saw the lit panel to one side and instinctively waved at it. The doors opened to reveal a transporter.

"Net!" Rodney said sharply. "Stop!"

Net, for once hearing the urgency in his words, obeyed.

"What? It's just a little cupboard!"

"No, it's a transporter and I don't want you transported who knows where, or worse, not transported because the power runs out when you're in transit!"

"Oh. I guess that'd be bad," said Net.

"Yes, very bad," he said, stepping into the transporter and accessing the map. He looked Net square in the face and pointed at the map. "Do not touch this!"

"I won't," she said meekly. He narrowed his eyes at her suspiciously and she contrived to look even more innocent. _Definitely planning something_ , thought Rodney. He looked back at the map. The layout of the main corridors in the city reminded him of the ship's wheel on the Seadragon, which in turn reminded him of John, which made him wrench his thoughts sharply back to the matter in hand. They had come in on one of the handles of the wheel, but the inner spokes were offset, meaning they'd have to go round one of the curving corridors. Rodney swiped at the map with his hand, revealing other levels; there were two levels below and one above, which consisted of just the central hub of the wheel. Rodney wondered if this would be the place to start, or maybe that would be a jumper bay and they were already on the control level. Thinking about jumpers made him think about John again. He sighed and turned to Net, who was looking up at him solemnly.

"I miss my friends too," she said. "And Ma. And Pa." Rodney took her hand and they set off round the curve, clockwise, Net enumerating all the individual members of her immediate and extended family that she missed.

oOo

John, stepping through the veil of creepers into the dim green half-light, felt a brief tingling sensation as if he'd also stepped through a veil of energy. He blinked into the darkness and, despite his headache and painful shoulder, began to smile. Ahead of him in the gloom stretched a corridor, and if he hadn't known he was in the middle of a tropical rainforest on an alien planet, he could almost have believed himself on one of the dark lower levels of Atlantis.

But more than that there was a feeling of safety and protection and an excited little buzz in that part of his mind that allowed him to pilot a jumper or use the chair.

John placed a hand on the wall, his palm flat, fingers spread to feel the connection even more clearly and then leant against it, his forehead touching the smooth surface as if he were performing a traditional Athosian greeting. He stayed there for a few minutes, simply relaxing in the feeling of familiarity, allowing himself to sag into the support. It was different from Atlantis, or at least different from present-day Atlantis. The feeling was more akin to the city as they had first woken it, powered down and still largely slumbering. There was also an indefinable difference which John might have described in terms of flavour or even colour; this city was darker, richer, maybe older, whereas Atlantis in her current condition was lighter, full of zest and liveliness. It was definitely a feeling of welcome, however, and gave John more hope for the future than he'd had since he arrived on the planet.

John finally pushed away from the wall, his head spinning slightly and his shoulder aching. He set off down the corridor and was pleased to see the wall lights popping to life as he passed. He reached a junction and debated a left or right turn, then spotted the familiar doors of a transporter. He waved them open, stepped inside and activated the map. Quickly sussing out the multi-level ship's wheel arrangement, he was about to tap a central destination when his hand paused in mid-movement and he could almost hear Rodney berating him: "What happens if the power runs out when you're in mid-transit, Colonel Stupid?"

John smiled and then frowned, sighed and hoped Rodney was either at the now-liberated camp or waiting patiently with one of the groups in the forest.

He stepped out of the transporter and set off, round the curve of the wheel, clockwise.

oOo

Rodney and Net held onto a railing and looked down onto the central atrium of the city, although Rodney had decided the word city was a bit of an exaggeration. This place was no more than a moderate town compared to Atlantis. The atrium spanned this level and the one below. Its central platform looked as if it had, at one very distant time, supported the Stargate; and where there had been a Gate there really should be some kind of controls. Rodney strode eagerly round the gallery, Net trotting after him, until he came, with delight, to the expected consoles. It would be tricky, with no laptop or datapad as an interface, but Rodney was ready for the challenge. He felt as if a sadly atrophied part of his mind was zinging back to life.

He began examining the consoles, tapping here and there, thinking forcible 'on' thoughts, where he knew John would have just given the recalcitrant tech a flick or even a look. In fact...

"Net! Just run your hands over the top of this little lot!"

Net obligingly trailed her hands over a console and, realising her touch brought it glowing eagerly to life, bounced around the rest of the control area until all of the consoles were brightly lit. Rodney rubbed his hands together and got to work.

He became deeply absorbed and was only vaguely aware of Net skipping a full circuit of the gallery and then hopping down some steps to the floor below. After she had stood on the Gate platform hallooing loudly into the satisfyingly reverberate space for about ten minutes he irritably ordered her to find something quieter to do.

She looked up at him from the platform. "I need the bathroom. Can I go and find one?"

"Yes, yes, go, go!" said Rodney, desperate to get back to his work and not really considering the wisdom of letting a small child explore an ancient city on her own. Net grinned happily and trotted off down one of the main 'spoke' corridors, singing to herself, or more likely, singing to the city.

oOo

John stood in the darkness, back to a wall and listened. Turning the corner into one of the main corridors, he had seen lights far away toward the hub; lights which he hadn't switched on. He had flicked the lights off in his area with a sharp mental command and stood, waiting and listening.

A small shape flitted across the corridor in the distance and disappeared down a side passage. John drew his knife and crept forward, wishing he held the reassuring weight of his P90. He trod stealthily toward the light. His eyes narrowed and he stopped, listening once more. Yes, there, a voice. John frowned and shook his head; he didn't normally doubt the evidence of his own senses, but he almost certainly had a concussion and really, how could he be hearing a child's voice? A child singing in the middle of a buried Ancient city?

He crept on, toward the light and came to the side passage from which the voice was coming. He could hear it more clearly and stopped to listen once more.

"Hello Mr Door! Thank you for opening! No, empty." A loud sigh, a pause and the sound of pattering feet. "Hello Mrs Door! Open please, thank you! Oh, come on, I really need to go!" More pattering feet. "Hello Baby Door, please be a bathroom! Oh, I think maybe..." Another pause, followed by the sound of hesitant footsteps. "Are you a bathroom?"

John, intrigued, tiptoed down the passage, past a door opening onto an empty room.

The voice came again. "I think, if I sit here..."

He passed another empty room. A sudden giggling shriek made him stop.

"Well, you're not like the outhouse back home, but... I guess that did the job! Now..." A thoughtful pause. "You're a washbasin, I suppose, but how does the faucet work?"

John sheathed his knife. He reached the next door and peered into the room. A small child, a girl if the hair was anything to go by stood, facing away from him, waving both hands in all directions round a reluctant faucet.

"Come on, on, on! I want to wash my hands!"

"Um... I think you just turn it," said John.

The girl whirled round and stared, frightened blue eyes huge, jaw tight with fear, trembling slightly.

"It's okay," said John, leaning against the door frame, trying to look non-threatening. "I won't hurt you."

If possible the girl's eyes grew even more round, she looked him up and down, her mouth fell open, the trembling stopped and she raised a hand, pointing an accusing finger at him.

"You... You're John!" she said.

John blinked in total confusion.

"You are, aren't you?" she continued. She took a deep breath. "The city only lets nice people in and you must have heard it cos Rodney said things sing to you like they do to me and you get in trouble too and look, you've got really, really spiky hair and it must be you and you've come to rescue us except we don't need rescuing any more and my name's Net and actually I think maybe you might need rescuing cos you've hurt yourself and Rodney will be so pleased to see you and so am I!"

The little girl then rushed forward and hugged him, her arms reaching round his waist and squeezing hard and John, utterly bewildered by her torrent of words, patted her back vaguely with one hand.

His concussed brain caught up and he said, "Rodney? You said Rodney? Is McKay here?"

"Yes! Come on!" Net grabbed John's hand and towed him along. "I was going to creep up on him because I thought maybe he'd be having trouble and might be saying some more bad words if he thought I wasn't there and he doesn't think I remember them, but I do!" She turned to him with a mischievous grin. "But let's not do that now cos you're here!"

John allowed himself to be pulled along by the small, irresistible force and thought for the second time that day that maybe things were looking up.


	26. Friends Reunited

Rodney had pulled off the access panel beneath one of the consoles and was kneeling on the floor, crystals laid out in order next to him, his head and shoulders inside the workings. One of the crystals was burnt and blackened and he was trying to create a bypass without the system overloading. He had forgotten everything but his work and was enjoying himself hugely, muttering and cursing with enthusiasm. The only other things he would have liked were minions to verbally abuse and coffee and snacks, and if he had had minions they would have had to find coffee and snacks for him so that would have worked out perfectly.

At first Net's voice registered only faintly on a small, distant area of his consciousness, but when she began jumping up and down next to him, prodding him and shouting, "Rodney, Rodney, Rodney, look!" even his famously self-absorbed mind had to sit up and pay attention.

He wriggled back out from under the console with a grumpy, "What? What's so important?" and raised his head just enough so that he could peer over the top of the Ancient control panel. He froze. And stared. And slowly rose to his feet, his eyes still fixed to the same spot. He saw the spiky black hair, the most sheepish of lop-sided smirks, the casual lean.

"Sheppard!" he squeaked. "John!"

"Hey, Rodney," came the lazy reply.

Rodney came out from behind the console, slowly, tentatively, as if he were afraid that John would suddenly vanish. He stepped forward, holding out a hand, then stopped, the hand dropping back to his side. They just stared at each other.

"What? How?" Rodney spluttered.

John shifted from foot to foot awkwardly. His smirk expanded into a grin which Rodney thought looked particularly foolish and then realised his own face was also contorted into what could only be an equally foolish grin. And to his horror he felt his eyes begin to well up.

An imperious voice intruded. "You're supposed to hug! Go on!" Net grabbed the leg of Rodney's overall and a fistful of John's clothes and pulled them toward each other. They embraced briefly, awkwardly patting each other on the back with equal measures of embarrassment and satisfaction.

John's breath hitched suddenly in pain and Rodney pulled back and noticed his makeshift sling and, upon narrow-eyed scrutiny, saw the hazel eyes had a slightly glassy look and his hair on one side was stiff with dried blood.

"What happened to you?" Rodney asked worriedly.

"A lot," replied John succinctly, "But the latest was crash-landing a dart."

Rodney, ignoring Net's impressed exclamation, urged John to sit down on the floor and began to check him over, tutting over his wet clothes.

"I'm fine," insisted John, "It's just a busted collarbone and a knock on the head."

"Fine or not, there's not a lot I can do for you here," Rodney fussed. He rearranged John's sling to immobilise his arm more effectively and checked his head, finding the expected egg-shaped lump.

Rodney and Net sat on the floor opposite John and John was amused to see Net grab one of Rodney's hands whereupon he absently enfolded hers in both of his own.

John told them of all that had happened to him since the wreck of the Tadpole and Rodney reciprocated, ably assisted by Net. When they came to tell about the tracker implants Net gave a word-perfect recital of Rodney's string of expletives to John's delight and Rodney's embarrassment.

"I was just trying to... you know," Rodney fidgeted.

"I know," John said, impressed that Rodney had taken on the role of Net's protector, even if some of his methods were unconventional.

"So, do you think the resistance have control of the camp yet?" asked Rodney.

"Yeah, I think so," replied John. "The plan seemed to be working last I saw. The big question is, what next? There'll be a strike heading our way from the capital as soon as the queen finds out."

"We need to get everyone in here," Rodney said decisively. "The crystal matrices of the darts can take up to fifty at a time and the resistance have, what, three darts? A few trips would be enough."

"In case you hadn't noticed, McKay, we're in the middle of a city in the middle of a forest, with no transport. How're we going to tell them where to come?"

"Jumpers!" said Rodney, pointing upwards. "A jumper bay above us with three docked according to the controls here."

John stared and swallowed and Rodney suspected for a moment that the reunion with his friend followed swiftly by the reunion with his favourite mode of flight might provoke more emotions than even John could suppress successfully in one day.

"Let's go," John said huskily.

"You go ahead, I just have to finish here," said Rodney, tapping at the console and peering at the resulting changes to the flickering display screen.

"Finish what?"

"These are the Gate controls," said Rodney, scuttling from one console to the next, "From when the Gate was here, but!" He ran back to the first console, "They're supposed to still override the DHD where the Gate is now!"

"Can we dial?" John asked hopefully.

"No! We can't do much at all, it's corrupted at the other end." Rodney stopped, staring at the display, watching as the Ancient text ran rapidly to and fro. "All I can do is introduce a tiny little glitch. Just enough to stop the chevrons from fully locking." He tapped a few more keys and nodded with satisfaction. "Done!" he said.

"So the wraith can't dial out?"

"And no-one can dial in!"

"Cool!" said John.

oOo

In the jumper bay tension and over-wrought emotions were released in a very petty argument over who should pilot the jumper, Rodney insisting John shouldn't fly with a concussion, John insisting that the jumper bay hatch was probably blocked and that it would take a couple of very well-aimed drones to clear it, whereupon Rodney took offence at John's assumption that Rodney's aim would be poor. Net all the while kept up a constant and strident complaint that it was totally unfair that they wouldn't even consider letting her pilot. In the end, frustrated, her shouts rose above their bickering and echoed around the bay.

"When someone tells me I can't do something I just go ahead and do it anyway!"

John and Rodney stopped and turned to Net.

"I think she takes after you," said Rodney.

"I was reminded of your dulcet tones!" snarked John.

Rodney was about to embark on another fierce defence when John turned to Net and held out his hand.

"C'mon, you and me can be co-pilots."

Rodney allowed Net to initialise the jumper, while watching John slumped in the co-pilot's seat. His eyes were closed and his face pale, and the furrow between his brows told Rodney all he needed to know about why John had given up on the idea of piloting the jumper without more of a fight. Easing the little ship out of the docking port, Rodney began receiving information through the HUD; as John had predicted, the hatch was blocked and ten thousand years seemed to equate to about ten metres depth of soil.

"You got this McKay?"

Rodney gave a tight little nod and peered up through the viewscreen at the open hatch, compacted soil held together by millennia of tree roots blocking it completely. He searched in his mind for the drone launchers, carefully activated just one drone and, taking a deep breath, let it fly. A streak of light shot toward the hatch and burst through the blockage. There was a flurry of impacts against the roof of the jumper and, looking up, Rodney could see a circle of daylight.

"Good one," said John.

oOo

It would have been nice, Rodney thought, to return to the prison camp as a heroic figure, discoverer of the lost city returning in an Ancient ship to rescue the suffering masses. Instead, their return was marked by John's urgent exit as soon as the hatch was halfway down, to heave up the meagre contents of his stomach, leaning for support against the side of the jumper.

"Concussion kicking in there, Sheppard?" asked Rodney when he'd finished.

"Huh," John said, blearily, wiping his mouth.

A crowd of orange-clad prisoners and resistance fighters had gathered and Rodney saw an authoritative figure striding toward them, his intense gaze taking in the jumper and then fixing on John.

"John!" he said. "I saw you go down. What happened?"

"I went down," John mumbled, unhelpfully. "Found the city and these guys. Um...this is Rodney. And Net. Rodney knows what to do. Think I'll go and..." He gestured vaguely at the jumper.

Net went with John back into the jumper while Rodney outlined his plan to Keb, and within a very short space of time groups of fifty ex-prisoners and resistance fighters were being assembled ready for 'culling' and the jumper was being packed full of scavenged supplies. Rodney, in the pilot's seat once more, waited for the last crates of food and boxes of medical supplies to be loaded on board, flipped the lever to shut the hatch and set off back to the city. The darts would give him a half hour's lead and then set off, knowing that the city's automatic docking would only work for jumpers and that Rodney would need to be in the control centre to lower the cloak and let them in.

Later, after Rodney had let in each dart several times and then relays of jumpers carrying equipment, he thought how, in just one day, the city that had slept for ten thousand years had come to life. He looked out over the central atrium and instead of the calm emptiness and shining surfaces he saw stacks of crates and clusters of people on mattresses retrieved from the prison huts, some cooking on tiny camp stoves. There was a steady toing and froing from the bathrooms and the sound of talk and laughter filled the space with a relaxed low-level buzz.

He turned away from the atrium and looked at the nest of mattresses and blankets that Net had created. She lay, curled up like a harvest mouse, next to John who was sprawled on his back, snoring. Rodney, deciding there was nothing more he could do for now, fitted himself into the meagre space they had left and closed his eyes.


	27. Arboris

John woke to the sound of rhythmic crunching and the background murmur of many people talking in low voices. He blinked and sat up stiffly, propping himself against the wall. Net was munching something that looked like a large, rectangular cookie. She made an indeterminate, cookie-thwarted attempt to speak and then gestured encouragingly at the open pack beside her and the canteen. John drank, sipping at first and then drinking thirstily. He took a cookie, bit into it and tried to sort out the events of the last twelve hours in his head.

By the time they had arrived back at the camp the day before, John had had to admit to his concussion and just give in to feeling awful. After that everything was pretty much a blur. He remembered lying on one of the benches in the jumper, surrounded by crates and stacks of supplies. He remembered being back at the city and someone cleaning the cut on his head and giving him a more conventional sling. He also remembered Net telling him that somebody had worked out how to use the showers. He looked down at himself and realised he was wearing one of the nasty orange jumpsuits and that he felt pretty clean. He wasn't sure if this had been achieved under his own steam and thought it best not to enquire.

"Bit dry, aren't they?" said Net, spraying crumbs everywhere.

"Mmm," he agreed, reaching again for the canteen. "Where's Rodney?"

Net pointed downward. "Bottom level," she said. "He said there were two... zed peas? Or something..."

"ZPMs. Two? Cool!"

"And someone found some crystals and things which Rodney thought were... cool," she experimented. "Why do you say cool when they might be cold or hot or anything?"

"Oh, uh... It's just when something's good but you don't want to sound... um... not cool, so you say cool." John shrugged his uninjured shoulder and took refuge in a large bite of his cookie.

"Oh and Rodney said to tell you there's a chair, but I think we're okay without, don't you? And what's the point of just one chair if we'd have to take turns?"

It was John's turn to spray cookie crumbs. "A chair? Did he say a control chair?"

Net shrugged. "Maybe."

John struggled to his feet, leaning against the console as a wave of dizziness passed.

"Rodney said you had to rest!" Net ordered.

"Do you do everything Rodney says?" John enquired, with a raised eyebrow.

Net smirked guiltily and shook her head.

"Well, neither do I! You coming?"

Net nodded. "I'll bring these," she said grabbing the remaining cookies and the canteen of water.

"Good thinking," John said.

oOo

The control chair proved to be on the lowest level of the city, in a small room off the central hub. The ZPMs were in a room opposite and John and Net could hear Rodney's Chief Scientist voice in full flow, directing and, frankly, harassing people. John thought there must have been some scientists in amongst the prisoners and wondered if they might decide it had been more peaceful being slaves to the wraith and then felt guilty for thinking that, because actually he felt much better being able to hear Rodney haranguing his minions.

John and Net bypassed the commotion and slipped into the Chair Room. The Chair sat on a raised platform and was similar in design to the Antarctic and Atlantis chairs. Perhaps it was a little smaller, John thought, and the headrest had a slightly less elaborate design.

"It doesn't look very comfortable," commented Net.

"Exactly what I've always thought!" said John. "Would it have killed them to add a little padding?"

"It needs cushions," said Net contemplatively, circling around the chair. "And a throw. A cosy, fluffy one. Pink. Ooh!" John had sat down in the chair and it had obligingly tipped back and lit up. "What's it doing?"

"It lets me control the whole city," said John, carefully taken his left arm out of its sling and placing it along the handrest with a suppressed wince. "And I can access long and short-range sensors; see what's going on out there."

"How? I can't see anything!"

"It shows me, in my mind," said John. "But I can show you too." The lights in the room dimmed and a glowing plan of the city appeared, floating above the chair.

"Cool!" said Net.

John smiled. "Yep, that is cool," he agreed.

"What else?" Net jumped up and down on her toes.

"Okay, well, the city's name is Arboris. And... Oh! There's no stardrive; it can't fly!"

Net choked with laughter. "Silly! Cities don't fly!"

John smirked, but didn't respond. His brow wrinkled and his eyes moved swiftly behind closed lids. "We've got drones... those are the weapons. Quite a good stock. We've got a cloak, although the forest has done a pretty good job there."

"And something stops people getting in if the city, I mean if Arboris doesn't like them!"

"Yeah, there's a kind of shield. Not sure how strong it is." John frowned. "I think it's traditional at this point to say 'We've got company'"

"What?"

"Darts. Just a couple. Flying circuits. I guess trying to find us." John's eyes flickered to and fro. "More on long range sensors."

"Shoot them! Shoot them!" bounced Net, with glee.

"I'm not gonna shoot them!" said John repressively. "That would give away our position."

"Oh," Net wilted for a moment, then suddenly brightened. "Can I have a go?"

"No!" said John, remembering his first encounter with an Ancient drone. Net's face took on a mutinous expression. John sat up and the chair powered down. He looked at Net. "C'mere," he said, beckoning. "I know you're good at this stuff, and that's great, but some of it's really dangerous." Net's lip stuck out even further and her brows lowered. "When it's safe, and that might not be for a while, I'll teach you how to fly a jumper." He paused, then added, half to himself, "It couldn't be any harder than teaching Rodney."

"What? What's that? What's going on in here?" Rodney bustled in followed by his entourage. "You're supposed to be resting, Colonel!" he said accusingly.

"As it happens I was just having a nice sit down in this relaxing chair," John drawled, patting one of its arms proprietorially.

Rodney snorted and helped John put his arm back in its sling.

"I suppose you saw the darts?" he said.

"Yeah, checked out weapons and defences, long and short-range sensors, all the usual kinda thing."

"Yes, yes, we have a nice defensible position, which is all very fine, but I need direct access to the Gate," said Rodney firmly. "The only way I can sort this mess out is to get into the temple at Leturu, get to the Gate and fix it."

"Fix it to do what, though? How's it supposed to work?"

"The Gate's supposed to work like any other Gate in that it emits a planet-wide field allowing mutual comprehension of the main languages in the galaxy and please don't ask me precisely how that's achieved because it would take a lot more time than we have to waste to explain accurately!"

John privately thought Rodney still didn't know how it worked, but just said, "Go on."

"My best guess is that the Ancients set this Gate up to emit another field that suppressed or hid signs of advanced technology, energy signatures, temperatures above what your average forge might be able to produce, that kind of thing." He paused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "There's another element to it that I can't quite work out. Something that's been corrupted to have a psychological effect on certain areas of the planet so that they remain relatively primitive. I'm guessing that if I disconnect whatever wraith-tech is modifying the gate controls it will go back to the original settings that the Ancients intended, but what effect that will have remains to be seen."

"So, does that mean you can you fix it?" asked John.

"Yes! Yes, I can fix it! Once everybody here has done their jobs," he looked pointedly over his shoulder and the group of scientists scuttled away, "and we've assembled a toolkit from what the Ancients left in the labs here. I'll just need time."

"Then you'll need a diversion," Keb's voice came from the doorway and he strode in, looking curiously at the Control Chair. "I can fire weapons from here?"

"You haven't tried it yet?" asked John. Keb shook his head. John got up and moved aside. "Sit down and," he looked at Rodney. "How does it go?"

"Think of where we are in the solar system," John and Rodney said together.


	28. The Temple

Net was nowhere to be found. Rodney hovered on the ramp of the jumper, fidgeting anxiously. She would be safer staying here than with him, but it still felt wrong, not saying goodbye at least.

"Time to go, McKay!" came John's voice from inside the jumper. Rodney turned and stomped up the ramp. "She'll be okay," John said as Rodney sat down in the pilot's seat.

"I know. It's just..." Rodney tailed off, then sighed and put his hands on the controls in preparation to leave the docking station. "You shouldn't be coming anyway! You're injured and you still have dizzy spells! You can't hide it from me, Sheppard!"

"I'm not getting into an argument again, Rodney. You know why I'm coming."

Rodney moved the jumper out of the bay, cloaked and then rose slowly toward the hatch, followed by a second jumper, which similarly seemed to dissolve into the air as its cloak was deployed.

"I know. In case we're over-run and have to go through the gate," Rodney said resignedly. "We can at least get back to Atlantis and hope Woolsey clears a mission to come back and support the locals."

"Exactly. Now..."

"Don't start telling me how to fly this thing!" Rodney interrupted crossly. John rolled his eyes but kept silent as Rodney guided the ship up and out of the hatch and away into the night.

The plan was to fly to Leturu, monitored by Keb in the control chair back in Arboris. As soon as they neared Leturu, Keb would let fly with the drones, drawing darts away from the capital and focussing the wraith's attention on the Ancient city. Rodney, John and their back-up in the form of a team of four resistance fighters would set their jumper down on the roof of the temple complex and get to the Gate in order for Rodney to work his technical wizardry. The other jumper, which had been sent at Keb's insistence and which would land on the adjoining palace, contained a larger team of soldiers whose job it was to 'take out' the wraith Queen.

Neither Rodney nor John were convinced Keb knew what his team were taking on. Rodney had listened to John trying to describe the effects of a wraith Queen's mind-control and had added his own two cents' worth when John's usual inarticulacy didn't quite seem to be conveying the pain and helplessness, and the ease with which queens could take over human minds. It was to no avail; Keb sent his team.

The other part of the plan would come into action once Rodney had fixed the Gate. Rodney would communicate with the Arboris chair and Keb would then send drones to target the temple and palace, hopefully after the two jumpers had departed. By the end of the night, if the plan worked, the resistance would have brought down the current regime and the planet would be free of the wraith's influence.

The jumper made short work of the flight over the vast forest, soared high over a snow-capped mountain range and then sped down to the plain and the city of Leturu. The palace and temple were situated on an outcrop reminiscent of the Acropolis in Athens. Rodney hovered the jumper over the temple complex and told the jumper to scan the structure below them. He scrutinised the display on the HUD for a suitable landing place. 

"There!" said John, pointing, "That one looks good!"

"It's close to the Gate," Rodney said doubtfully, looking at the narrow rooftop.

"Want me to land it?"

"No! I'll do it!" Rodney's mouth clamped tight in concentration, his anxious eyes stared intently at the HUD. The jumper came to rest with just a small bump and Rodney released the controls with a satisfied nod.

The resistance had made sure their team as well as John and Rodney were fully, if not uniformly armed. They carried a mixed bag of wraith stunners and weapons at a similar level to Genii hand guns. John and Rodney both carried stunner pistols, Rodney because he was loaded down with technical equipment and didn't want anything more awkward to carry and John, because he could fire one easily one-handed. John also had his knife in his belt and they'd both managed to borrow darker-coloured clothes that wouldn't scream out their positions, unlike the bright orange overalls.

They left the jumper cloaked on the roof and made their stealthy way down a narrow stairway and into the marble-clad halls of the temple.

oOo

Net was in the dark, alone and cold. She was, however, exactly where she wanted to be, exactly where she had planned to be. There had been silence for over five minutes and so Net pushed on the underside of the bench seat and it swung up obligingly on its hinge. She climbed stiffly out and regarded the interior of the jumper with an air of satisfaction. If people thought they could leave Net behind they would find out they were sadly mistaken.

She amused herself for a few minutes by standing in the starlight outside the jumper's cloak and sticking an arm or leg back inside so that they disappeared. Then she went inside the cloak and tried just putting her head out, but that was no fun because there was nobody to laugh at her disembodied head floating in mid-air. She was about to ransack the jumper for snacks when a streak of light high up in the night sky caught her attention. It quickly grew into a dart shape and Net watched as the dart flew low over the rooftops, neatly depositing about thirty wraith drones on another flat-roofed area of the temple complex. The drones disappeared down a stairwell and Net felt her heart speed up and her throat tighten uncomfortably. Her friends wouldn't be able to fight off that many wraith; she needed to warn them.

Net flitted silently across the roof, down the steps and into the temple.

oOo

The air was heavy with the sweet, dry scent of woodsmoke and stale incense and underlying that the bitter, dampness of rot and decay. Rodney looked up at the ceiling of the tall corridor and saw that the creamy, red-veined marble had been stained black in patches by the smoking torches set at intervals in brackets on the walls. Heavy velvet drapes curtained doorways and alcoves, the folds of fabric harbouring dust and cobwebs. 

He trod as quietly as he could, weighed down by a large backpack of Ancient tools and the unique crystals that had been found at Arboris. He hoped they would restore the Gate and its attendant energy fields to full working order and couldn't quite bring himself to believe that his and John's journey was nearly over. The bitter bleakness of those far northern mountains among which they had crash-landed seemed a very long time ago.

They passed through a courtyard open to the night sky, keeping to the shadows and avoiding the flickering orange light cast by torches in tall, elaborate metal holders. Rodney could not hear John moving at all, his presence nothing more than the two glints of firelight reflected in his eyes.

At the far end of the courtyard was a huge, open doorway. They approached the doorway obliquely and stood flat against the wall, staying out of sight of the interior. Rodney checked the display of the LSD that he'd picked up from the jumper. Only two life signs within and this, according to the jumper's scan of the complex, was the room that housed the Stargate. To find the Gate so lightly guarded was puzzling. 

Rodney held up two fingers and pointed inside. The resistance fighters nodded in understanding and on an agreed signal, slipped swiftly and silently round the edge of the door. Several stunner blasts echoed out into the courtyard and Rodney froze expecting to hear the rhythmic tread of approaching troops. Silence returned, however, and he followed John inside. The team were taking no chances and Rodney heard the sickening sound of knives forcibly impacting flesh and tearing across the throats of the two wraith.

And then he forgot about the horror of the wraith and the hardships of their long journey because there was the Stargate, finally right there in front of him after so many months. It stood on a platform close to the far wall, framed by plunging acres of thick red velvet, as if it were a player on a stage, its immense circular form all the more imposing, all the more obviously ancient for its setting within the mystery and gloom of the temple.

But what struck Rodney most of all, and John too going by his surprised "Huh!" was the fact that the Gate had obviously not been used in a very long time. Both the DHD, which stood in its usual place, off to one side like an ever-present attendant, and the Gate were surrounded and overlaid by eerily twisting garlands of wraith-grown technology. Loops and branches of shiny-damp red and brown wove in and out of the structure of the DHD like tree roots growing through concrete and in places spreading out into larger shapes like the knobbly ends of broken bones. The Stargate itself was wound about with festoons of branching wraith-tech, like the creepers and lianas back in the rainforest. The Gate and the DHD were choked by the growth, overgrown and corrupted, suppressed and subdued; prisoners of the wraith just as surely as the human population of the planet. Rodney shuddered at the eerie sight.

"She's cut herself off," said John in surprise. "The Queen."

Rodney stepped slowly forward, his footsteps reverberating in the huge space.

"Maybe..." Rodney began, thoughtfully. "Maybe she had to. Rivalries between factions? Maybe she was on the losing side and then found this place."

"And thought, why hunt when you can farm?" John sighed. "It's a mess. Can you get it working?"

"I'm tempted just to start cutting this lot away, but I'll have to check for booby traps first."

"It looks like a big job."

"Yes, I know and we could be discovered at any time! Dr McKay at work here, even more of a genius when under pressure than usually..." Rodney's voice became muffled as he crouched low behind the DHD, looking up at the curling wraith tentacles from beneath.

oOo

Under other circumstances, Net might have enjoyed creeping about in the shadows of the temple. It was an excitingly sinister place; to Net it felt unimaginably ancient and full of mystery. At the moment, however, she was worried for her friends and she wasn't sure which way they'd gone.

She pushed her way behind a swathe of dirty red fabric and sat down on the floor. She took a cookie out of the pocket of her overall and began nibbling it. Stupid temple. Why weren't there any signs, 'Stargate this way!'? Net's thoughts were disturbed by the sound of marching feet and she peered round the edge of the curtain to see a large group of wraith move past. Net's jaw clenched and her heart thumped. She felt useless. Were they going toward or away from the Gate?

Then there came a distant wailing sound, echoing from far away down the stone corridors of the temple. The drones stopped and, turning, ran with frightening speed back the way they'd come.

Net crept out from behind the drape and stood, disconsolate, a small figure dwarfed by the decaying grandeur of the temple. She shouldn't have come. Maybe she should just go and hide in the jumper. If... Net bit her lip. If nobody came back she would fly away. She would put her hands on the controls and they'd light up and she'd fly off.

But not yet. If that alarm was something to do with Rodney and John, she would at least find out. And maybe, as in all her favourite stories, her friends would be captured and put in a dark dungeon and then she could steal the keys and let them out. With renewed optimism, Net skipped off toward the sound of the alarm.

oOo

John froze and he saw Rodney's head pop up from behind the DHD. An alarm was sounding, coming from deep within the temple complex or possibly from the adjoining palace.

"Did you set that off, McKay?"

"No! I haven't touched anything yet!" came the indignant response. "Checking for booby traps, as I said, not just diving in and setting off alarms left, right and centre!" Rodney's protesting voice subsided to a grumbling murmur as he continued his work.

John frowned and chewed at his lower lip. He strode across to the resistance team leader, Barat.

"If that's your guys in trouble, we can manage here if you want to back them up," John said.

Barat looked uncertain. "My orders were to protect you and Dr McKay."

John shrugged. "This place doesn't seem like a hive of activity. I can watch Rodney's six while he works."

"I'll leave one man," said Barat. He turned away and, signalling to his men, made his way out of the Gate room.

John moved back toward Rodney who had started delving into the inner workings of the DHD. He had opened his pack and laid out various tools ready for use and was swapping crystals and cutting away at some of the wraith tendrils, muttering and humming under his breath. John left him to his work and carried out a perimeter check of the huge room. He walked a full circuit, close to the wall, going right behind the theatrical drapes; worryingly, there was only one exit, the way they'd come in.

Rodney's muttering seemed to be growing louder and John caught the sound of a triumphant "Ha!" and a "Yes!" He came out from behind the curtains to see Rodney leap up from his position on the floor, his eyes gleaming.

"That should do it!" he said.

"Do what?"

Rodney waved his hands excitedly.

"Do whatever it's supposed to do! I've restored the original crystals and removed the wraith components. Now we just... wait and see!"

"We might not have time..." John began uneasily, but was interrupted by a dry, cracking sound followed by a crashing thud. The two men's eyes were drawn to the Stargate, where a large section of the wraith lianas had broken off and fallen away. As they watched, more of the wraith tendrils seemed to lose integrity and crumble. Rodney tapped with his knuckles at the ugly protrusions covering the DHD and they fell in under the impact and the whole area began to slide off uncovering the original Ancient device.

"It's killing the wraith tech!" said John.

"Wraith tech's not really alive," Rodney said, watching the loops and tendrils wither and fall apart. "The energy field, it's destroying the bonds between particles or maybe it's a resonant frequency that breaks it down or maybe it's a kind or virus, maybe like a computer virus or even a virus like we get, like a cold, like..."

"War of the Worlds?"

"Yes! No! Maybe! I don't know, but the point is, I can find out and maybe we can replicate this and have a real chance against the wraith!"

Then John suddenly felt a vast, malevolent presence in his mind and he fell to his knees, seeing Rodney do the same next to him. A voice echoed in his ears and in his head and it was as if this was the only sound he had ever heard or ever would hear or ever wanted to hear; the sound of the wraith Queen's voice.

"A chance against the wraith?" Her voice was low, harsh, full of spite and derision. "I think not! I think, like this vermin," she threw aside the withered body of the resistance fighter who had been standing sentry at the door, "You will give your lives to me wholly and willingly, gladly sacrificing yourselves that I may live!"


	29. The Queen

Net followed the sound of the wraith soldier's pounding feet through the temple halls, across a courtyard and then through an elaborate portico. She found herself in a large, vaulted entrance chamber. Her footsteps faltered. This must be the entrance to the palace complex; Rodney and John wouldn't be here.

She clung to the walls, seeking the shadows cast by flickering firelight and turned to head back the way she'd come. A laugh rang out of the doorway opposite the entrance and Net spun round, startled. Peering round the threshold she saw a long, many-pillared room, at the far end of which was a throne on a raised dais. On the throne, Net saw, was a lady with long, purple hair and pale blue, shiny skin and, squinting her eyes, Net could see the distinctive wraith-markings on her face. One hand was held up, motionless, and a sinister smile played across her features, revealing the glint of sharp teeth. A tall young woman stood behind the Queen, her dark skin a sharp contrast to the wraith's eerie pallor. Her eyes were dull, her expression blank; Net thought she must be a servant or slave.

Net was puzzled. The wraith soldiers had marched into the room, but the resistance fighters were frozen here and there, some in the open, some behind the stone columns. Net could see that they were trembling slightly and the faces she could see were contorted in agony.

The Queen dropped her hand and both wraith and resistance soldiers moved, embarking on a pitched battle in and out of the columns, stunner blasts mixing with the crack of handguns. Net could see the Queen smiling as if this were a show for her entertainment. The servant had moved in front of her mistress, arms spread as if to protect her; her face was still blank, expressionless.

It looked as if the wraith were winning, Net thought, but then from behind her came the slap of feet on marble. Net moved back into the shadows once more and watched as three more resistance fighters entered the room to support their comrades. It was not their arrival which turned the tide of the skirmish, however; as if in a choreographed dance, all of the wraith soldiers simultaneously put their hands to their heads and began to emit dreadful wailing screeches. Net covered her ears and watched with grim fascination as the masks they wore began to crumble and fall away and the wraith themselves slumped to their knees, holding their heads or even clawing at their faces.

The Queen stood and pushed the servant girl roughly to one side, and Net felt a blast of fury invade her mind. She closed her eyes and crouched down on the floor, but it was as if black malicious thoughts had invaded her soul and she couldn't escape. Slowly, feeling like a heavy weight was forcing her down, she crawled away and pressed herself into a corner. There was silence from the throne room until there came a thudding clatter as of heavy weights being dropped, followed by the sounds of a firm, measured tread interspersed with the patter of lighter footsteps.

Net cautiously raised her aching head and watched the wraith Queen stalk angrily out through the portico, power and fury in her movement, in the fingers curled into claws and the rigid tendons of her neck. Her dull-eyed servant followed, head lowered.

Net slowly got to her feet, wrapping her arms around herself and wishing she wasn't alone. She wasn't sure if she wanted to look in the throne room and one quick glance made her wish she hadn't. A jumble of slumped bodies lay on the floor and before she had snapped her eyes firmly shut, they had fallen on a human face, trickles of blood running down the pale skin, from eyes, nose and mouth. A desperate, tearing sob escaped Net's constricted throat and she turned and fled.

oOo

John couldn't move. He knelt, rigid, on the cold, hard marble floor of the Gateroom and, though he fought furiously for control, the only movements he made were the trembling of his body and the twitches of his contorted fingers. The wraith Queen approached, slowly, every movement considered, as a lioness stalks its prey, her eyes flicking between John and Rodney. Out of the corner of his eye John saw a servant girl kneel down next to the wall and sit, head lowered in submission.

The Queen looked up, deep-set eyes observing the Stargate and the DHD, freed from their encumbering vines of wraith technology. Her eyes fell to John and Rodney once more and John felt the full force of her attention like a hurricane raging at his mind.

"This world is mine!" snarled the Queen. "My world to control, my world to hold, and my world to sow and to reap a harvest of flesh!" She spat the words, a clenched fist held up as if she were squeezing the whole planet within it.

"Which of you did this thing?" She bared her teeth and her eyes bored into theirs. John felt pain in his head as if his thoughts were being ripped from him; the Queen's gaze fixed on his and she smiled, cruelly. She deliberately ripped the sling off his arm and, unerringly finding the point at which his collarbone was broken, pressed down with the fingertips of one hand. Her strength was such that John felt the healing break give and snap and the jagged ends of bone tore through the muscles in his shoulder. He couldn't react to the agony and could only feel sweat running down his body and a twitch along his jawline as she continued to press down, her face a savage mask of sadistic pleasure.

Then the pressure was released but John's heart pounded even more desperately as he saw the Queen's hand reaching toward his chest. Her hand stretched wide, but instead of feeling the bite in his flesh and the drain of his spirit John felt himself lifted up by the bunched fabric of his clothes and held eye-to-eye.

"Your mind is interesting... and I will taste the delights of your life force later." The Queen sneered at John. "But you are not the one!"

She flung John hard and he hit one of the columns and fell to the floor, stunned, pain coursing white-hot through his veins and a roaring confusion in his mind.

oOo

Back through the dark corridors and lofty halls Net had followed the Queen and her servant, as close as she dared, trying to silence the soft pattering of her footsteps. She had seen the Queen take the life of the motionless sentry and felt a whisper of the mind control that had held him in place, preventing him from calling out, even though it had not been directed at her. Net had slipped into the Gateroom and found herself unable to move much beyond the threshold, such was the force of the Queen's fury. She slumped against one of the tall columns, cloaked by shadow but able to see all.

Net had watched helplessly as the Queen hurt John. She had stood, frozen, seeing tears of pain springing to his eyes and running down his face and felt her own eyes streaming with pity and anger and fear. Then the Queen had tossed John aside as casually as if he were a doll and had turned her attention to Rodney; Rodney who had become her friend and protector, who she had laughed with and argued with and fallen asleep on and deliberately irritated and so many other things which, to Net, added up to love. Net fixed her eyes on Rodney and tried desperately to move her frozen limbs.

The Queen glared at Rodney with mingled contempt and triumph. His eyes were wide, both pleading and hopeless, his mouth a thin, trembling line, unable even to cry out.

Net felt something loosen as if a weight was lifting off her mind.

The Queen reached out and tore the front of Rodney's shirt, exposing his chest, then she drew back her arm and threw back her head in anticipation of ecstasy.

And as the Queen's powerful mind focussed on her victim Net's hands twitched and her foot slid forward, ever so slightly.

The Queen plunged her arm toward Rodney, her hand slammed into his chest and the fingers spread out, blue-grey against his pale skin, then curled in on themselves, her nails digging bloody furrows.

Net felt the weight lift even more and pushed and pushed with all her mind and heart.

Rodney seemed to sag, his eyes grew dull and pale, his flesh sank and his skin wrinkled and folded. His hair withered and whitened and as the Queen writhed in delight he shrank into decrepitude and decay.

Net burst free and hurled herself across the room, without thought for herself or her life, propelled by anger and grief and a raging need for vengeance.

oOo

As the Queen had turned her attention fully on Rodney, John had felt the lock on his muscles ease and he lay, shuddering and twitching, the pain in his body and mind preventing coherent thought. His eyes suddenly regained their focus to see the Queen thrust her feeding hand forward and lock onto Rodney's chest. Even then John's body would not obey him; he tried to push up on his uninjured arm but his head spun and he fell to the floor once more. An image of Colonel Sumner danced in his mind and he tried again, staggered, reeled, but regained his footing leaning against the column. With utter fury and desperate sorrow John saw Rodney's face begin to wither and his body shrink.

A dirty orange streak shot across the room, leapt onto the wraith Queen's back and began beating her about the head and tugging fiercely at her hair, screaming wildly. The Queen, distracted, released Rodney, who dropped to the ground and lay unmoving. She reached behind her and, grasping her attacker, threw the small figure across the room with a contemptuous gesture.

The distraction was enough and John, his mind free and his body pumped with adrenaline, drew his stunner and fired once, twice, three times until the Queen was brought to her knees, reeling from the shock. John lurched forward, threw the stunner down and drew his knife. He stumbled behind the Queen and, his hand clenched white-knuckle tight around the knife, laid it at her throat and pressed in so that it began to cut into her blue-green flesh.

"Give it back!" he ground out through gritted teeth. "Give back what you took!" He pushed the stunned Queen down toward Rodney and pulled back on the knife further so that silver grey blood began to drip onto the patterned floor. "Give it back!" John roared.

Her hand came out and she touched Rodney's chest over the bleeding wound her feeding hand had left. The fingers spread out. John felt the Queen jerk and writhe as the life force left her and he watched as Rodney's skin became smooth once more, his hair darkened and his flesh filled out and the wildness of John's grief turned to shocking relief and joy.

His hand trembled and for a fraction of a second his grip on the knife faltered; it was enough. The Queen, recovering from the stunner blasts, threw herself back, whirled round and sent John spinning across the smooth floor. She turned back to Rodney, picked him up and with all her strength hurled him away toward the Gate; John heard a sharp crack as he hit the edge of the DHD and Rodney dropped to lie in a crumpled heap.

oOo

Sluggish thought cleared slowly, years of numb servitude dropping away. The mind that kept hers constantly in thrall was distracted. She became aware of the hard floor beneath her knees, calloused from submission. She felt the space around her, the movement of air against her skin. She heard the cries of mingled rage and pain and grief and they awoke the same feelings in her heart, feelings that had been hidden deep down inside her mind in that small space which was her only freedom.

She raised her head. She stood. She felt her mind and her body free from constraint and she gloried in her release.

She acted.

oOo

The Queen turned to John and he felt tendrils of her mind begin to invade his once more as the effects of the stunner left her. He drew himself up from the floor, to kneel, leaning forward supported on one hand, white-faced and shuddering, but still determined. He raised his head and looked about groggily for his weapons. As the Queen approached, feeding hand extended he saw a figure behind her; tall and graceful, the figure stooped down and picked up his knife.

Two strides, swift and sure and then she struck, reaching round to plunge the knife into the Queen's throat, her other hand pulling back the sleek purple hair. She pulled hard on the knife and its keen edge sliced through artery, tendon and muscle, releasing gouts of silver gore which splashed down over the Queen's clothes and spread out rapidly over the floor.

The Queen dropped to her knees, arms weakly flailing, face grey and uncomprehending. The servant girl knelt down behind her, holding the knife in place, pulling further through the tough cartilage, the pain of her years of enslavement giving her strength. Her free arm came round the Queen's chest in a murderous embrace and she spoke of her own volition for the first time in years.

"Die, Queen! And as you die, know that it is I, Subira of the Wind Masters who kills you!" She gave the knife one more savage jerk and then pulled it out from the side of the Queen's neck.

John watched as the Queen fell forward, face down onto the floor. Subira knelt still behind her amid the growing pool of blood, her arms held out to either side, knife in one hand, blood dripping from both. Her hands began to shake and then her body and the knife fell from her hand and clattered onto the hard marble.

John pushed himself to his feet, head spinning, his right arm holding his left. A few staggering steps took him to Subira's side and he sank down next to her.

"S... Subira?" Her glassy gaze focussed on his face. "Subira? Is that right?"

She nodded.

"Um..." he took a deep breath, fighting against pain and dizziness, but managing a crooked half-smile nonetheless. "I think I know your Mom."


	30. Atlantis

John stopped and carefully leant against the wall, trying to breathe without sobbing. He needed to get to the jumper. He knew it wasn't far, but he couldn't force his body to work properly. His steps faltered, his mind wandered and he felt like he would soon be washed away on a tidal wave of pain.

With every breath he took, pain lanced through his shoulder and chest like a knife. His skull felt like it was being hit with a hammer, bright flashes of agony pounding into his forehead, then his temples and then a sharp stab deeper inside which left him crouched on the ground, retching.

He had left Subira with Rodney and Net: Rodney, semi-conscious, his laboured breathing telling of a possible punctured lung, propped up against the DHD and Net, awake but tearful and in pain, her arm probably broken.

While Subira had roughly repaired John's sling and tied it back around his arm, he had tried to cudgel his exhausted, pain-filled mind into rational thought. He could dial an alpha site or ally, as protocol dictated, but after, what, five months? John didn't know which of the alpha sites were still in current use and many of Atlantis' allies did not keep a watch at the gate permanently. Rodney needed help now; time was crucial. And that meant speaking to Atlantis direct, which meant he had to reach the jumper.

He came to the stairs and groaned at the enormity of his task. Thoughts of Rodney spurred him on and, legs trembling, falling to his knees more than once, he climbed, suffering with every breath, every step, every movement. He fixed his thoughts on his goal and endured.

John reached the top and almost laughed. He couldn't remember where the entrance to the cloaked jumper was. He shuffled forward slowly, suddenly felt a hard line on his shins and fell forward onto the ramp, jarring his shoulder once more. He climbed to his feet, sweating and shaking and reeled and wove his way to the pilot's seat, the cockpit spinning and blurring before his eyes.

"Arboris, this is Sheppard."

"Arboris here," came Keb's voice. "What's your status?"

John tried hard to focus on Keb's words. "Um... mission objectives achieved. Belay the drones, Keb!"

"You're sure, Sheppard? Targets neutralised?"

"Uh... yeah."

"Targets neutralised here too!" said Keb, joyfully. "They just dropped out of the sky!"

"Yeah, that was Rodney. Told you he was good. Listen, Keb," John rubbed his eyes, the pain in his head increasing. "We're gonna head home... through the Gate. We'll be back. You'll need help with organisation and ... stuff."

"What about my men?"

"I'm sorry, they... they didn't make it."

A brief pause. "You alright?"

"Er... yeah, we'll be fine. Sheppard out."

John shuddered, suddenly cold and the instrument panel shimmered in and out of focus in front of him. He swallowed down his nausea and began dialling Atlantis.

Then the next thing he knew the dialling controls were digging into his cheek and the sequence had timed out, the icons dark once more. John, with a groan, pushed himself up, watching with fascination the steady drip of blood onto the dialling icons. He wiped at his upper lip with a shaking hand; his nose was bleeding. John blinked hard and clenched his teeth; he dialled again, completing the sequence.

"'Lantis, 'ts Sh... Sheppard," he said and a small, distant part of his mind was shocked at his lack of control over his voice.

"Colonel Sheppard?" Chuck's familiar voice, as longer-for as every other familiar person or place or object on Atlantis. John's vision blurred once more and there was a hissing in his ears. "Colonel Sheppard? Are you there?"

"Yeah...er... Woolsey there?"

"Colonel Sheppard, this is Woolsey," the firm, officious voice came clearly over the communicator. "You and Dr McKay have been declared MIA. You are breaking protocol by contacting us directly. Please dial an alpha site or an ally."

"Can't," John ground out. "Send a MALP, send a med team. Rodney's hurt. So is Net."

"Colonel Sheppard, I repeat, you are breaking protocol and should dial an..."

"These are allies!" interrupted John. He tried to get his jumbled thoughts in order. "Killed a wraith queen. There's a weapon. Wraith tech just... it just fell apart."

"This is highly irregular, Colonel. You have been out of contact for nearly five months."

John knew he couldn't hold on any longer. Woolsey's words buzzed in his ears, his head spun and he felt himself sliding off the chair. He made one last attempt.

"Rodney needs a med team. Get Net too. Little girl. And... s'her name? Subira. M'on the roof. Sh'p'd out." He slid down, no longer registering the pain in his shoulder and didn't even feel the extra blow to his head as it hit the floor. John lay in the darkness and cold, his thoughts drifted away and his eyes closed.

oOo

Rodney's nose twitched. He breathed in, inhaling the familiar scent that had called his sluggish consciousness up from the darkness. He was aware on some level of a throbbing pain in his head and a sharper pain in his chest, but they were at a safe distance for now and another breath had brought more of the rich, sweet scent. His head turned, feeling a soft surface beneath his cheek, nose seeking out more of the delicious smell like a bloodhound following a trail. It occurred to Rodney that vision might also be useful; he opened his eyes and blinked several times.

He saw Net. She had a brown moustache. Rodney blinked again but the moustache remained.

"Rodney! You're awake!" Net cried, joyfully.

Rodney observed that as well as the moustache, other things about Net were different. She was clean, for one thing, dressed in bright white scrubs, and her hair actually looked blonde whereas Rodney was sure it had been a kind of mousey brown. _Must've been dirt_ , he thought. She had her left arm in a cast, supported by a sling and in her right hand there was a mug from which she drank noisily before sliding off her bed and padding over to Rodney.

"This place is cool! It's like Arboris only... happier! And look," she waved the mug, spilling some of the contents on the floor. "This is hot chocolate and it's the best thing I ever tasted except someone gave me some crunchy things earlier... chips. And they were the best too, or there was that thing on a stick." Net slurped some more hot chocolate, increasing the size of her moustache still further. "Ice! On a stick! A pop-something... Anyway, you're awake and you're okay and John's here too only they won't let me see him."

"John's alright?" croaked Rodney.

"The man said he would be," Net's enthusiasm faltered a little. "I didn't really understand."

Rodney closed his eyes and just breathed. He was home. After so many months, so much hardship they really had made it back to Atlantis.

"Rodney!"

He opened his eyes.

"Carson!"

"Good to see you're awake," said Carson, picking up a cup of water with a straw and holding it for Rodney to drink from. He then began to check Rodney's vitals. "We'll have you up for a wee while later on, get those lungs working properly!" Rodney narrowed his eyes at what struck him as false cheeriness.

"Carson, pleased though I am to see you, I detect a note of prevarication.  
What's wrong? Is John okay? And where's Jennifer?"

"John's going to be fine," said Carson reassuringly. "He's still in the ICU just so I can keep a close eye on him. I had him under the scanner and there's no permanent damage even though it looks like he took multiple blows to the head, not to mention a pretty tough session with a wraith Queen, from what this young lady tells me!" He paused, looking uncomfortable.

"And? Spit it out, Beckett!"

"Well, you see, Rodney, you've been gone a long time."

"Yes, yes, I know, MIA and no doubt moving funerals at which speeches were made regarding my irreplaceable loss and invaluable achievements." Rodney's head was beginning to ache in earnest and it felt like someone was stabbing him in the ribs.

"Jennifer went back to earth," said Carson bluntly. "About six weeks ago. She got herself a good position at one of the top teaching hospitals."

"Oh," said Rodney. "Well. That's um..." He remembered V'stet, with slightly less guilt than usual.

"We tried to find you. Everyone did. But there were just no clues. We didn't know where to look." Carson fiddled with Rodney's IV line, looking at his feet. "We didn't think you were coming back."

"Ronon? Teyla?"

"Oh, well, I think they kept faith, especially Teyla. They've been leading their own teams."

"Oh," said Rodney.

"You need to rest," said Carson. "And you're due some more pain meds." He injected something into the IV port. "And why don't we find something for you to do?" he said to Net. "I can get one of the nurses to take you out for some fresh air."

Net slipped her hand in Rodney's. "I want to stay here," she said. Rodney squeezed her small, familiar hand. The pain in his head and chest was fading but he was aware of a different ache which Carson's drugs couldn't ease. Of course things had moved on. Of course people had moved on; they had to. It was just hard and Rodney had had enough hard times for now, thank you very much. As he drifted off to sleep he squeezed Net's hand again, knowing that she too would soon be moving on.

oOo

John knew he was safe. He knew he was home. He thought that he might have opened his eyes once or twice, maybe even spoken but it was all a confused blur and, he decided, not worth worrying about. He took an inventory: head, fuzzy with drugs, which was a good thing because he thought there was probably an almighty headache going on in there somewhere. Shoulder, immovable, although whether that was because it was tightly bound to his body or because he couldn't actually move it, John didn't know, or at this stage, frankly, care. John wasn't always a fan of a drug-induced haze, but he felt he'd earned this one and fully intended to enjoy it. He wondered if there was anyone to enjoy it with and realised his ears were registering low murmurs, with the occasional slightly raised and swiftly suppressed voice.

He opened his eyes, blinked away the blurriness and saw the familiar ceiling of the Atlantis infirmary. The lighting had been dimmed for the evening, except around the bed next to John's. Not wanting to be noticed just yet, he ever-so-slowly turned his head toward the murmuring voices. A slow smile spread across his face. Teyla, Ronon and Rodney. And Net and Subira. He couldn't work out what they were doing. They had put together two of the small side tables over Rodney's bed. Net was kneeling up over the surface and Subira was looking gently confused and not like the determined and ruthless wraith-killer that John knew her to be _in extremis._

Ronon reached over and, with wary deliberation, moved something on the table and then picked up a card and frowned heavily. Net, kneeling up to peer at his card, gave a shriek of laughter and crowed, "Go to jail, Ronon!" She took a deep breath and said, in a jumbled rush, "Go-directly-to-jail-do-not-pass-go-do-not-collect-two-hundred-dollars!"

Net was swiftly suppressed, but when the guilty looks that were turned in John's direction were met with sleepy but open eyes and a hazy smirk, the game was temporarily forgotten.

"John!" Teyla's greeting was warm and accompanied by the gentlest of Athosian greetings, forehead to forehead, respectful of John's injuries. John closed his eyes and breathed in the richly bitter scent of the oil Teyla used to condition her bantos rods.

"Teyla. Good to see you."

"It is good to see you too, John. You and Rodney have been greatly missed by everyone."

"Sheppard," said Ronon, nudging John's leg.

"Ronon," replied John.

The greetings were simple, but John's team didn't need effusive outpourings of emotion. They knew each other; that was enough.

"Sorry if I woke you up, John," said Net with minimal contrition. "This game is so cool, have you played it? I've got all these hotel things and people have to give me money!"

"You didn't wake me and yes, I've played it," said John, yawning.

"Trust me, you wouldn't want to play it with Net," said Rodney. "I don't think a more acquisitive child exists in two galaxies!"

Net beamed with simple pleasure.

John yawned again and the game continued. He drifted in pleasant thoughts of being home, not allowing himself to speculate on changes made during his absence. He was content, for now, listening to Teyla's gentle but authoritative cadences, Ronon's mildly amused rumble and Rodney's quiet but emphatic protests against imminent bankruptcy.


	31. Reunion

The following morning brought, for John, the frustration of trying to enjoy eating an Earth-style breakfast one-handed. It also brought Richard Woolsey, wanting details of the political and technological situation back on the planet now designated M3Y-259.

"It seems like an immensely complicated situation which could take months, if not years to resolve," he said, eagerly. "A new government to be formed, people to be repatriated, societies to be brought up-to-date technologically, not to mention the problem of institutionalised prejudice against those with the ATA gene." He rubbed his hands together with apparent relish. "All of which means we can exchange diplomatic assistance rather than valuable resources to obtain Ancient technology from Arboris."

John gave up trying to cut his pancake and just folded it and picked it up, deciding that having syrup dripping down his chin was a small price to pay. He had really missed pancakes.

"You should contact Keb," he said through his pancake, relishing its comforting starchiness and anticipating the salty crunchiness of his bacon.

"The leader of the resistance, yes, he'll need to form a temporary government if he hasn't already." Woolsey hesitated, looking awkward. "I just want to say how sorry I am that we were unable to trace you. Dr Zelenka did his best and searches were made, but..."

"We knew from the start that there was no way you could find us," said Rodney, who was swiftly and efficiently consuming a wide variety of breakfast items as if he was working to a deadline. "Not even I would've been able to track us down!"

"Yes, well," continued Woolsey. "I also want to assure you that your positions are still open. We've been in limbo for the past few months while the IOA have been discussing plans for Atlantis. A series of temporary military commanders... most unsatisfactory..." He tailed off briefly, but then sat up straighter and looked rather smug. "However, things are now more settled and both military and civilian operations are to expand, so there's plenty to do. And if the technology exists to resolve the whole wraith situation it's possible Atlantis will become a fully-fledged Earth colony in a few years’ time!"

Woolsey gave a nod of satisfaction and then bustled off to enjoy opening negotiations with Keb.

Rodney had finished his breakfast and was eying John's hopefully. John had stopped eating and was just staring at his plate.

"Are you going to eat your bacon?"

"Yes! Hands off McKay!" said John. He picked up a piece and began nibbling the end thoughtfully.

"I was just thinking about building a boat," he said.

"A boat?"

"Yeah, a tall ship, like the Seadragon."

Rodney shuddered. "No, thanks! I was seasick for over a week on that thing!"

"I miss it," said John. "Being right up there in the tops, feeling the wind. It was like flying." He looked at Rodney. "We had some good times. It wasn't all bad."

"I suppose," said Rodney grudgingly. "Some of it sounds a lot funnier than it was at the time."

"You tipping over that stall of spices!"

"Ha! Yes! Well that was funny, other than the fact we were being hunted down like animals."

"And then there was the whole V'stet thing.." said John, giving Rodney a sidelong glance.

"Oh, yes, well," spluttered Rodney, turning red. "I think we can leave that out of the report, don't you?"

"My thoughts exactly," agreed John.

oOo

In the afternoon, Major Lorne came to see John. Rodney, trawling his way through months of reports from Zelenka on his laptop, thought about shooing him off; he could tell John had a headache again and he had a rigid look which meant his shoulder was probably hurting too. John, however seemed interested in what Lorne had to say, so Rodney thought he'd let it go. But if the furrow between John's brows got any deeper, shooing would ensue.

Rodney continued with his work, but his attention was caught when he heard Lorne laugh and say, "Oh, I don't think you need to worry about that, Sir! This place just doesn't seem to work as well without you around. Or Dr McKay." He shook his head and said, ruefully, "Those scientists and their explosions!"

"What? What's that?" said Rodney, looking up from his laptop. Rodney glared suspiciously at Lorne, who suddenly looked shifty. "What happened?"

"Oh, er... nothing to worry about. The repairs are nearly finished."

"What? What happened to my lab, Major?"

"I'm sure Dr Zelenka can fill you in," said Lorne, with a nervous smile. He got up and began backing away. Rodney was drawing breath to halt Lorne in his tracks when a disturbance entered in the form of Sergeant Mehra, who had a firm grip on a sulky-looking Net's hand.

"Caught this kid in the jumper bay, Sir," she said to Major Lorne. "She'd initialised jumper three."

"I wasn't gonna fly it!" protested Net, trying to wriggle out of the sergeant's iron grip. "We were just saying hello!"

"Someone's been in and put cushions and a blanket on the Control Chair."

"I wanted to make it more comfortable for John!"

"And..." Sergeant Mehra suppressed a smile with an unconvincing cough, "Mr Woolsey got shut in the bathroom for half an hour this morning. Door controls got stuck."

Here Net said nothing, but just looked thoroughly guilty.

"Been busy, Net?" said Rodney, drily.

"I was just having some fun," mumbled Net.

"C'mere, Net," said John, dismissing Lorne and Mehra with a wave. Rodney listened as John proceeded to give Net a low-voiced but firm lecture on the misuse of Ancient technology and the behaviour he expected of visitors to his city and then spoilt the effect by smirking when Net described Woolsey's frantic cries to be let out.

"Sounds like it might be time to send the wee girl home," said Carson, who had come to give Rodney his pain meds.

Rodney knew Carson was right; it was time Net was reunited with her family. The pills Carson had given him seemed for some reason extra-large and he struggled to swallow them past the lump in his throat. Net's sharp ears had caught Carson's words and she turned away from John and looked at Rodney with suddenly pleading eyes.

"I want you and John to take me home!" she said.

"Maybe we could combine it with a trip to Arboris," said Rodney, thinking of the Ancient labs he had yet to explore.

"Need to take Subira too," said John, yawning and rubbing his shoulder.

"Well I won't be clearing either of you to go off-world for a good while!" said Carson dampingly.

"I'm not going without Rodney!" declared Net.

"You'll do as you're told, young lady!" Carson responded.

Rodney looked at John and rolled his eyes. Carson didn't know what he was taking on, Rodney thought.

"I won't go home yet," said Net with the air of one smugly clinching an argument, "because I won't tell you where I live!"

oOo

John shifted uncomfortably on the jumper's bench seat. Carson had reluctantly cleared them to go off-world after a week recuperating on Atlantis. John was still experiencing headaches and occasional dizziness and his shoulder irritated him far more than he'd admitted to Carson, twinging every time he took a deep breath and making it very difficult to sleep comfortably at night. John suspected Rodney was similarly uncomfortable, his broken ribs giving him little peace.

Carson had only cleared them to go with strict instructions to Teyla and Ronon not to let them do anything other than enjoy reuniting a couple of families and rest as much as they could. Sergeants Chen and Johnson were to alternate as their pilot and co-pilot, both having the ATA gene. Net still occasionally sulked because she couldn't have a go, but John didn't blame her; he felt sulky about not piloting the jumper and he didn't have extreme youth as an excuse.

They came through the Gate into the throne room at Leturu and stopped to pick up two passengers. Subira enfolded her brother Rutendo and her sister Zuri in her arms and then they looked into each other's eyes in silent acknowledgement of their years of servitude. Rutendo had served the priests and Zuri had been apprenticed to the priestesses; both had eyes that looked far older than their teenage years.

oOo

_And I hope, I mean if I can, if there's any chance at all, I'll... One day I'll come back here and I'll walk in and I'll say 'Here are your children, Mirembe. I've brought them back to you._

John remembered his words as he stepped from the bright morning light of K'ret Oasis into the cool interior of Mirembe's servery. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, but everything was as he remembered; the two long tables, a few diners finishing their breakfast, and the counter at the back, already tidied and wiped down after the morning service.

John stood, his back to the folded wooden shutters; he could hear the clattering of washing-up coming from the kitchen and was about to follow the sound when Mirembe appeared in the doorway. She noticed him and he saw her take a breath as if to welcome a customer. Then she stopped. John took a step forward. He opened his mouth, but the words stuck in his throat. Mirembe raised a hand and held it out, uncertainly, then swiftly brought it up, her fingertips touching her lips as if to hold any hopeful words inside her, to stave off the disappointment of having her most heartfelt desire crushed once more. Her eyes pleaded. John couldn't say the words. His strength lay in deeds and he could not bring himself to release from his constricted throat the words which he had spoken to Mirembe, spoken so few weeks ago before the world was free.

He cleared his throat. "Here..." Then he jerked his head toward the outside and vaguely flapped a hand.

Mirembe moved. A few swift strides brought her to the threshold and then she was running and John watched as she spread her arms wide and wrapped them as far as she could around her three children, Subira, Rutendo and Zuri. All four sobbed with the grief of their separation and laughed for the joy of their reunion and hugged and kissed and touched and simply looked as if they couldn't comprehend that they were together once more.

Then Mirembe turned to John and hugged him too, gently, exclaiming over his injury and thanking him again and again for bringing her children back to her.

John introduced her to his friends and the two sergeants and she welcomed them all into the servery and prepared food for them, willingly, but not very efficiently assisted by her children because they kept stopping to hold her again in their arms.

After an hour or so John caught Teyla looking at him and Rodney assessingly and admitted to himself that he was struggling not to rest his head on the table and go to sleep. Mirembe saw them off with more hugs and tears and their promises to return, and they departed for Arboris.

oOo

Arboris had changed, Rodney thought, as he stomped tiredly down the stairs from the jumper bay. The area round the hatch had been cleared properly of trees and overgrowth and, on leaving the jumper they had been greeted by efficient uniformed soldiers. The control room and central atrium no longer looked like a refugee camp; the shining floor area was empty except for a few silent sentries and an atmosphere of calm purpose prevailed.

They were shown guest quarters and Rodney was glad to lie down and take a pain pill for his aching ribs. He wasn't tired or sore enough to miss an opportunity, however, and when they departed in the morning several crates were loaded onto the jumper, with Keb's permission, containing various Ancient items including something which, Rodney thought, might possibly be designed to recharge ZPMs.


	32. Parting

John looked out of the jumper's viewscreen and, from high above the river could see its slow, lazy sweep stretching into the blue distance, punctuated by the mottled patches of white water that marked the cataracts. Following its blue line, bordered by green reeds they came to the tranquillity of a villa on the riverbank, white walls gleaming in the sun and when they landed, a warm welcome from V'stet.

V'stet's parents had not been found and when John told her, she stood quietly for a moment and nodded slightly to herself as if setting aside the finality of her loss to deal with later. She visibly pulled on a mask of brightness and her eyes skimmed her visitors with interest and lingered on Ronon with speculation in one raised eyebrow. John thought it was a good thing they weren't staying the night.

oOo

As they followed the line of the river further north toward the broad delta, both Net and Rodney grew quiet. Net sat closer to Rodney on the bench seat and tucked her hand in his in a way that had become familiar. She sighed.

"You do want to go home, don't you?" Rodney suddenly had visions of an abusive family who had thought themselves well rid of their mischievous daughter.

"Of course I want to go home!" she said hotly. "It's just... It's been so long and everything's changed and I've changed." She paused and frowned. "I want Ma and Pa and my gang but I want Arboris too. And you." She sighed again. "It's confusing."

Having reached the delta they flew East along the the coast until Net pointed excitedly to a small seaside village. They set the jumper down on a broad sandy beach and made their way up steep stairways that wound through white-washed buildings, curious eyes following their progress through narrow windows. They came to an open space at the centre of the village where there was a water pump and several market stalls, but no sign of the inhabitants.

"They probably think we're a patrol, come to take people away!" said Net.

Net marched up to the largest house in the square and, having tried the door and found it locked, began hammering and shouting, "Let me in!"

"Subtle," commented John.

The door opened and a man appeared, blonde-haired, blue-eyed and Net shrieked, "Pa!" and flung her arms about him, her casted arm breaking free of its sling. He bent down and held her tight, straightening up until her legs dangled off the ground. Then a dark-haired woman came out followed by what, to Rodney, seemed a hoard of children of varying shapes and sizes.

Their reunion was noisy and joyful and became even more lively when the rest of the village, realising there was nothing to fear, emerged from their houses to join in. Net hadn't told Rodney much about her family, other than the list of their names, which seemed to go on forever. When the initial fuss had died down and Net introduced them, it became apparent that Net's father was the headman of the village. Although in colouring he was similar to Net, it was her mother she most resembled in manner and the Atlanteans found themselves welcomed and agreeing to stay the night amid a flurry of her questions and comments and frank fascination.

The villagers lit a large barbecue which stood in the middle of the square and was obviously regularly used for communal gatherings, and chairs and tables were set out. Food and drink in large quantities began to arrive and Net's mother kept Rodney particularly well supplied.

Watching Net and her hoard of siblings, cousins and friends, John said, "So, Rodney, you like children now?"

"No. That would be stupid. That would be like saying 'I like adults'. I just like individual children. Well, I like Net, anyway."

Net, busily reasserting her authority over her gang, began dividing them into teams of four. She had a face-to-face confrontation with one boy, older and taller than she was who was loud in his objections to being told he was the scientist on his team.

"You fix things and save the world and you still get to carry a gun and shoot people!" she roared. "What's your problem?"

The boy, seeing sense, backed down.

John turned to Rodney. "Sounds like she read your job description!"

They left in the morning, flying further north and, sitting in the jumper with just his team and the two sergeants, Rodney thought about his and Net's farewell.

She had clung to him, awkwardly, her casted arm getting in the way and he felt a convulsive movement which could have been a sob. When she had stepped back, however, although her eyes were tear-filled, her expression was firm and she raised her chin and set her smile with the stoicism he had come to expect.

"Thank you, Net," he had said.

"What for?"

"Just..." he had shrugged and waved a hand, embarrassed. "For being you... For being a friend."

oOo

They found the Seadragon way out in the ocean, white sails billowing against the deep blue. John wished he were the one flying the jumper, sending it skimming over the waves alongside the ship, looping round the masts and then matching the ship's progress so that they could wave to the sailors and John could point out the topsails and the spindly-looking yards on which he'd loved to balance.

Ronon raised both eyebrows and said, "Cool!" and John knew that, if ever the opportunity arose to sail a tall ship, he'd certainly have one willing crewman.

oOo

And then further North to where sea ended and land began, Erransport a wisp of smoke on the coast, the long, tedious road that had taken two months of traveling a mere handful of minutes by jumper.

They landed at the foot of the hill on which Geran's Hall stood and walked up to the palisade to be greeted initially by firmly closed gates and a bristle of spears over the parapet. When Rodney and John were recognised, however, Sir Geran himself threw the gates wide and welcomed them in with a beaming face and open arms.

Rodney had brought a generator and was soon standing in the centre of a swarm of activity, organising the installation of electric light and a hot water tank. Even the Lady Tarva's forced smiles became genuine when Teyla presented her with a selection of dress fabrics.

A hastily organised feast followed, with much conviviality and calls for stories. John, whose head was beginning to hurt again, was glad he'd brought along some comics to give out so that he didn't have to fulfil the role of storyteller. The noise level in the hall dropped considerably as small clusters formed, fascinated by the colourful pictures of superheroes and villains.

They left before the sun rose in the morning and headed still further north.

oOo

Rodney didn't want anything to do with the hill folk and kept rubbing his head where the stone had hit him. John remembered the mother with the baby, how frightened she'd been of him. He didn't want to scare the simple people again, but the furs and peat blocks and fish he'd stolen had kept him and Rodney alive and it felt like a debt that needed repaying.

They landed the jumper, cloaked, by the shore, just as the sun was rising. Ronon and Teyla helped John carry out some wooden boxes and set them by the path that the people used regularly. The boxes contained some soft, new furs, some warm colourful fabrics, some simple wooden children's toys and some picture books. The picture books were Teyla's idea and had been made showing very simple images of the planet's history so that the people would at least know they were now safe from the wraith.

They took off before they could be discovered and hovered, still cloaked, until the village began to come to life and the fishermen, heading for their rafts, discovered the boxes. The men carried them up to the village and there was much scurrying around and excitement as the contents were investigated. John smiled.

oOo

The jumper touched down and the ramp was lowered. John was tired. His shoulder was hurting and he had another headache, but both he and Rodney felt they needed to make one last stop. They all trooped out onto the patchy snow and brittle, frozen grass which crunched underfoot. The icy wind cut through even their winter gear and John shuddered at the thought of how they'd been dressed when he and Rodney set out on their journey.

The clouds were low, grey and threatening, obscuring the mountain tops and emphasizing the harsh, unforgiving nature of the landscape. The pod sat, as they had left it, near the stream, a solitary manmade feature in the wilderness.

John looked around at Rodney, Teyla, Ronon, Sergeants Chen and Johnson. All the faces were solemn, imagining or remembering what it would be like to be stranded here, in this bleak, remote part of the world, so far from help, knowing rescue was impossible, an immense distance to be crossed. John's eyes met Rodney's. He gave a half-smile, half-grimace in acknowledgement of their achievement, their endurance, their survival. Rodney's chin jerked up in his characteristic subtle mixture of uncertainty, defensiveness, pride and absolute loyalty, and John knew that, with no words, there was understanding.

Teyla turned from her contemplation of the tiny pod and the hardships her friends had endured. She smiled.

"It is time to go home," she said and they gladly returned to the warmth of the jumper and set course for the Stargate and Atlantis.


End file.
